


Secret Victory

by Mistress_of_Squirrels



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War, F/M, Friendship, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Psychological Trauma, Relationship(s), Romance, Sexual Content, stormcloak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:41:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1558661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_of_Squirrels/pseuds/Mistress_of_Squirrels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fallen priestess Sigrun is intimately familiar with hate. It has carried her, shaped her, and forged her into a woman stronger than she ever thought possible. At the behest of her dying mother, Sigrun returns to Skyrim, prepared to confront whatever destiny lies in store for her. Along the way she gets caught up in a rebellion and comes to the startling realization that hate may no longer be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Return Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at any sort of fiction. Suggestions/comments/criticism are all welcome. Please be constructive. I can't improve if I don't know what needs work. 
> 
> I will attempt to update as frequently as possible, but I would rather take my time and give the story my best effort than fill a chapter with slop just so I have something to post. Thanks and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One - To Return Home 

Skyrim's cold was breathtaking, but not unexpected. The wind, however, was far worse. It bit and tore at her clothes like a living thing, stinging every bit of exposed skin like tiny knives. Each gust seemed to sweep right through her, making her very bones ache. For what had to be the dozenth time since setting out on this fool's journey, Sigrun cursed her hasty departure from Cyrodil. Though she'd always intended to return to the snow covered peaks of her homeland, she'd never imagined that she'd be doing so as a fugitive. 

_Damn you, Avitus,_ she seethed, fury uncoiling in the pit of her stomach _. Death was too good for the likes of you!_

The man was no more than a memory now- she'd made sure of that- and yet the mere thought of his name was enough to invoke a hatred so savage it left her shaken in her more lucid moments. For now, Sigrun merely rode the wave, allowed it to bolster her flagging strength and suffuse exhausted limbs with the deceptive warmth of adrenaline. That hatred had driven her to Skyrim, given her the will to survive the many trials fate seemingly flung her way and she clung to it with all the desperation of a man drowning. 

The faint snap of a twig brought Sigrun out of her thoughts with a start and she froze, listening intently. The road had been fairly safe so far, barring the occasional wolf either hungry or foolish enough to leave the cover of the pine forest. Still, it was a mistake to let her attention wonder from her surroundings like that. For all she knew, she was still being pursued. Carelessness now would cost her her life or her freedom and the young Nord woman was loathe to give up either, not when she was so close to the promise of both. 

The wind stirred once more, whipping tangled ebon locks into her face and making her amber eyes water. With an impatient flick of her hand, Sigrun batted the offending tendrils away. She waited a moment more, scanning the area for any sign of disturbance and released a tense breath. Deeming it safe to continue she resumed her course down the road. A sudden surprised cry rang out, shattering the silence. Within moments, more cries followed, and the metallic clash of steel against steel sounded from further up the path. 

“Bandits,” Sigrun muttered softly, lips curving into a small smile as her mind briefly skipped back to the warnings from a well meaning traveler she'd passed a few days ago. “Well, that changes things a bit.” 

Eyes narrowed in thought, the woman chewed her bottom lip as she debated the best course of action. On the one hand, she could simply walk around. Whatever skirmish was taking place ahead didn't concern her and their was no reason it ought to. She should consider herself fortunate that bandits were harrying someone else and not her. On the other hand, if she were to render aid to the victim of the attack, she might be able to gain for herself some sorely needed supplies without parting with any of her meager stash of coin. A quick shrug of her shoulders to reposition the diminished weight of her pack made up her mind for her. Sigrun drew her dagger from its sheath at her hip and crept forward as quietly as she could. 

A flash of red, stark against the bleak landscape, slowed her steps and with a muffled curse, Sigrun flung herself behind the cover of a nearby tree. 

_Not bandits at all_ , she realized, as her heart quickened its pace. _Imperial soldiers_. _But what are they doing all the way out here?_

Silently, Sigrun cursed her stupidity. She'd heard rumors of unrest in Skyrim, mutterings of civil war, and she'd dismissed them as irrelevant; nothing to concern herself with for the time being. All she'd cared about was getting there; she'd sort the rest out later. Her lack of foresight was fast catching up to her, it seemed. The woman stifled a bitter laugh with the back of her hand. This was the kind of impulsiveness her mother had always warned her about. In her haste to flee her troubles in Cyrodil, she'd run headlong into a new problem. And this, she feared, would not be so easy to outrun. 

The young woman took a steadying breath and risked another glance from behind her tree. The Imperials had another group of men and women surrounded. All were dressed in a simple uniform of leather armor and a blue tabard, save for one man. More than his clothing set that man apart, the Nord woman noticed. He was a large man, quite a bit taller than his companions. He carried himself with a calm assurance Sigrun envied in that moment. He had to know he'd lost. There were simply too many Imperials to escape. He held up a hand and said something to the others that did not carry to her hiding spot. Whatever it was, the soldiers in blue were not pleased to hear it, their expressions ranging from tightly controlled anger to shocked dismay. The leader spoke again, more insistent this time, and slowly lowered his weapon to the ground. Another man to his left gave a curt nod and did the same and the rest quickly followed suit. 

Sigrun gave a quick shake of her head and took a step back. Though their courage was admirable, she could do nothing for them and she'd dallied behind that tree long enough. Getting caught now wasn't going to help anyone. Quietly she turned, prepared to slip back the way she came. 

“You there!” a man called out sharply. “Halt, rebel!” 

Dread swept over the young Nord with nauseating force. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she'd delayed her retreat too long. Without another thought, Sigrun fled as fast as her legs could carry her, each pounding beat of her heart driving her to push herself that much harder, demand even more from a body nearly taxed to its limit. Angry shouts went up behind her and she could hear the heavy footfall of her pursuers. Her chest ached as she took in ragged, gasping breaths of the frigid air, but still she ran. A heavily muscled man in an Imperial uniform lunged at her and Sigrun narrowly avoided his grasp, twisting her body just out of his reach. Unfortunately, her successful evasion threw her slightly off balance and the young woman staggered a step or two in an attempt to regain her footing on the treacherous terrain. 

Quick as her recovery was, the stumble still cost her, and Sigrun's lead was fast disappearing. She could hear the panted curses of the soldier closest to her, could hear the staccato of his footsteps draw closer and closer. She wondered briefly if the time had come to turn and fight. To do so was suicide, certainly, but perhaps an honorable death was preferable to capture. 

Fate, it seemed, was not about to let her decide the answer to that question for herself. A sudden hard weight slammed into Sigrun, knocking her feet from under her and the air from her lungs. Dazed and disoriented, the simple act of drawing each breath took all of the young Nord's concentration for the next several moments. 

Sigrun was dimly aware of cruel fingers digging into her arm as she was roughly flipped to her back. She made a feeble attempt to buck the soldier's heavy weight off her, to no avail. She was effectively pinned, and the man knew it, if his gloating expression was anything to judge by. 

“It's over, Stormcloak dog,” he sneered, his face pressed so close to hers Sigrun could feel his hot breath. “This rebellion is as good as finished.” 

“Do I look like one of them?” Sigrun demanded, annoyed with the Imperial's smug attitude. She had crimes enough of her own to answer to. She'd be damned if she let this fool fabricate additional offenses. “Take a good look,” she continued, gesturing with her chin to her plain homespun and furs. “Do you see any similarities?” 

The legionnaire shrugged in disinterest, hardly sparing her a glance. “Tell it to the captain, if you get the chance. Finding you out here with them won't do you any favors, though,” he warned. “Best get comfortable,” he added, binding her hands tightly with coarse rope. “I don't think you're going anywhere for a while.” 

The young Nord ground her teeth so hard her jaw ached as she was hauled to her feet an divested of her backpack. In her present circumstance, there was little she could do. Sigrun took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm her rage as she silently took stock of her situation. Her dagger was missing, presumably lost in the chase. Though she towered over the Imperial by several inches, he had the advantage in strength. Bound and unarmed, further resistance was not a viable option. Even if she hadn't been operating on little food and less sleep for gods knew how many days, she was still hopelessly outnumbered, in a land she hadn't set foot in in nearly fourteen years. As of yet, she saw no clear way out of her predicament. That did not mean she would not find one in the future. 

The point of a sword nudged the small of her back, and her captor grabbed her shoulder in an attempt to push her forward. “Move.” he ordered gruffly. 

Sigrun shrugged his hand off angrily, but obeyed. “Don't touch me!” she hissed, eyes narrowed in impotent fury. It was one thing to be marched at the tip of a sword but she did not suffer touch casually. Perhaps it was foolish to protest, bound and surrounded by the enemy, but some things were beyond her tolerance. 

The Imperial smirked at her, one dark brow lifted in challenge. Thankfully, he left it at that and made a show of removing his hand, dark eyes mocking. Two more legionnaires joined the first, effectively flanking her and the sword prodded her forward again, sharper this time. Sigrun kept her face carefully neutral and held herself with as much dignity as she could muster as she was led back to the main party. 

To her surprise, the Imperials did not immediately set off for whatever destination awaited their prisoners. They appeared to be waiting for something, the legionnaires practically vibrating with nervous tension. One man in particular was going from captive to captive, collecting their name and any relevant information. This he added to a sheet of parchment. Sigrun quickly lost interest in watching the man make his rounds and focused her attention on eavesdropping on what bits of conversation she could hear. From what she was able to piece together, the Imperials feared some kind of rescue. A single glance at the Stormcloaks showed they held no such hope, but the legion considered it a valid enough concern that whoever was in charge – one Tullius, if she was not mistaken- decided to deviate from their original destination. 

Sigrun was under no illusion as to what likely awaited them wherever they might finally arrive. The Empire would look at any rebellion as treason, a crime that carried only one penalty. Perhaps she might find some way to escape that fate. It was only by happenstance that she was found with the rebels. That was hardly grounds for execution. Once this was sorted out, she'd be on her way – provided her own criminal history was not brought to light. 

The young woman felt a stab of sympathy for the Stormcloaks. She knew how deep the cracks in the Empire went, knew intimately how Titus Mede failed his subjects when he made the decision to treat with the Thalmor and abandon the very god responsible for his throne in the first place. Sigrun had been raised to revere the god who was once man. She'd taken in stories of his path to divinity along with her mother's milk, had followed in her mother's footsteps to devote her life to the Divine, though she'd since...fallen in that respect. Even though the the White Gold Concordat had been signed several months before she was born, she felt the loss as keenly as any who'd grown up with the free worship of Talos. 

Sigrun sighed and tugged a bit at her bonds in an effort to distract herself. Thoughts such as those led to dark places, places she was unwilling to confront just yet. The young woman looked up as a shadow fell across her, irritated to see the same man who'd brought her down. A trickle of fear slithered along her spine as she caught sight of her pack in his hands and the knowing smirk on his face. 

“Thought I'd have a look, see what we have here,” he began conversationally as he gestured to the satchel. “And what do you think I found?” 

The Nord woman swallowed hard, knowing full well what he'd found; there was little else in the bag at this point. The Imperial was just beginning his game however, his smirk morphing to a grin that was all teeth. He pulled a polished wooden amulet out of the pack just enough for Sigrun to catch a glimpse. She licked her lips, her throat suddenly dry. That bit of wood and cord was worth more to her than any amount of gold, and certainly more than the fool taunting her. 

“You don't want something like this falling into the wrong hands, girl.” He gave her a measured look, voice low. “Might be we could come to an...arrangement of sorts.” 

Fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms, Sigrun dropped her gaze as if in defeat and nodded sharply. “Name your price,” she whispered. 

Grinning in triumph, the man grabbed her by the arm and led her away. “Let's talk, he murmured, for her ears alone. At the questioning look of another legionnaire, her captor lifted his shoulder in a casual shrug. “This one needs a tree,” he laughed. 

The other shook his head, but made no move to interfere. “I'd let the traitor piss herself, were it up to me. Go on then, but make her be quick about it.” 

Sigrun was led a short distance away to a small group of trees. They were mostly out of sight, but still easily within hearing range, a fact the Imperial was quick to point out, lest she try anything ill advised. 

“Now then, what's that bit of junk worth to you?” he asked with a leer. “And what might you be willing to give to see that the wrong ears don't get word of it?” 

“I already told you, name your price.” Sigrun fought to keep her impatience from tinging her voice. She shuddered in disgust as the legionnaire ran a hand suggestively along her arm but made no move to stop him. Her shapeless clothing gave only the vaguest hint at what might lie underneath, but his appreciative gaze told her it was enough. His price was obvious. He opened his mouth to speak, but caught sight of her eyes and paused, a shadow of revulsion flitting across his features. Jaw tightening, he shoved her forward and motioned for her to walk. 

“We're done here, rebel. Let's go.” 

“My amulet,” Sigrun countered in a hard voice, unwilling to let the matter drop so easily. “I want my amulet.” 

The legionnaire barked a laugh. “You got nothing I want, halfbreed,” he snarled, turning to face her. “And you're in no position to be bargaining.” 

Sigrun stiffened, hatred sweeping through her with such fury it left her dizzy. Her awareness narrowed to the impudent man in front of her. “That amulet is worth more to me than the whole of your precious empire,” she spat venomously. “And by Talos, I mean to have it back!” 

Leaning forward the Imperial dangled the leather cord in her face. “Your words mark you a traitor as surely as your trinket. You'll meet the headsman with the rest of the rebel--” 

His words abruptly died as Sigrun brought a knee up hard into his abdomen. As he sank to his knees, breathless, she scrabbled in the snow for the small wooden hammer, her movements hindered by the bindings at her wrists. She nearly wept in gratitude as her stiff fingers closed around it, her body going limp with relief. She hastily tucked the amulet into her clothes and struggled to her feet, only to be met by a stinging slap that left her ear ringing and her mouth filled with blood. 

“Bitch!” the Imperial hissed, yanking her arm ups and slamming her back against a tree. “You'll pay for that.” 

The young Nord spat a mouthful of crimson in the man's face and snickered as his eyes bulged in rage. A flicker of dark eyes and a twitch of the hand betrayed her captor's intent to reach for his weapon, and without warning Sigrun lunged forward with all her might, bringing her arms down around the Imperial. Taking advantage of her opponent's momentary surprise, the woman used her momentum to slide behind him and bring her bound hands up under the legionnaire's jaw, pulling towards her chest until her arms shook with the strain. Her bonds worked for her, as the man was incapable of breaking her hold around his throat. As the blood roared in her ears, she thought she heard yelling, too muffled to make out and to distant to matter. She held on for what seemed like hours, relaxing her grip only when the man stopped moving. 

Exhausted, her arms heavy as lead, Sigrun let the body drop and fought to catch her breath, her head spinning. A savage kick from behind sent her to the ground, her knees aching from the impact. A sea of irate voices swirled around her, buzzing like a nest of angry bees. She struggled to make sense of what they were saying before giving it up as unimportant. They'd kill her now, of that she had no doubt. 

Another kick, this time to her ribs made her grunt in pain. Idly, she wondered if this counted as valiant combat. A sudden fervent wish to see her mother's face again inside the Halls of Valor sprung in her chest before a sudden sharp blow to her temple made her vision go black. With a soft sigh, Sigrun gave in to the encroaching darkness, unable to resist the allure of peace. 


	2. Unlikely Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been brought to my attention that chapters 2 and 3 followed the game a bit too closely, so I've revised both chapters. For those of you reading the story, thank you! I hope you continue to enjoy.

Chapter 2 - Unlikely Rescue 

Regaining consciousness was like surfacing from underwater at an agonizing pace. Cognizance did not return at once, but rather in a convoluted series of events. At first, it was not a matter of what was, but what _wasn't._ There were no ancient Nord heroes, come to greet Sigrun and bid her take her place among them. There was no shining mead hall, no songs of prowess and honor, no games of strength or skill. At first, there was nothing but the terrible knowledge that she had not made it to the Hall of Valor after all. Then came the pain. 

This, too, was gradual; a dull ache easy to ignore as long as she kept her head below the surface. Sigrun had no idea how much time passed like this, if any at all. She remained in blissful ignorance of such things here under the comforting blanket of darkness. The pain, however, was relentless and determined. It pulled at her with sharpened claws, shredding her peaceful shroud. Inch by inch, she was pulled from her dark sanctum. The Nord woman fought to remain, but she was no more successful than if she had been trying to stop the receding tide. 

The ache sharpened, swelled into a horrid throbbing that echoed with every beat of her heart and then dug in with tiny hooks somewhere deep in her skull. Against her will, citrine eyes fluttered and the woman moaned. The light only intensified the pain, but there was no retreat now. A strange lurch sent her head lolling and a rush of bile up her throat. Swallowing, Sigrun took slow, deep breaths through her nose until the nausea lessened. Once the immediate danger of retching had passed, the young Nord became aware of a tickling beneath her cheek and a strange, though not unpleasant, scent filling her nostrils. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat brought her eyes snapping open. Confused, Sigrun lifted her head with a wince and found herself staring into a pair of hazel eyes. A heartbeat later, her pain gave way to shock as she recognized the rugged face of the leader of the Stormcloaks. Her mouth dropped open in horror as she realized her proximity to the other Nord, and she could not stop the small cry of alarm that fell from her lips. 

“Apologies,” she blurted, cheeks burning in humiliation. 

An impartial grunt muffled by a stained scrap of cloth meant to serve as a gag was her only reply. With considerable effort, Sigrun heaved herself into a proper sitting position and put as much distance as she could between herself and the man. The sudden movement sent a clap of thunder through her head that made her vision darken around the edges. Biting back another moan, she leaned forward, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited for the pounding to ease to a more tolerable level. 

When she was able, Sigrun opened her eyes taking a moment to orient herself. Memories of her capture came flooding back, jumbled and murky in places, but possessing enough clarity to grasp how she came to be here. _Here_ , she noted, was trussed like a fowl for the table in a carriage guarded by Imperials. Even had her bindings not been reinforced after her earlier stunt, escape was nigh impossible. At some point while she was unconscious additional soldiers had been added to the ranks to escort their little caravan as the carts bumped and rolled down the rutted road. The Legionnaires were taking no more chances with their prisoners. 

For the first time since waking, Sigrun took note of her fellow passengers. She did not recognize anyone from the previous night, but she hadn't really been in a position to remember faces. Two men seated opposite her were speaking together, despite one legionnaire's surly demand for silence. She listened to the conversation but remained silent. On occasion, she would respond to a direct inquiry with a nod or a curt word, but she was in no mood for idle talk. Little she heard was of particular import to her: an attempt to lift the somber mood by a blond Stormcloak, the petulant whining of a horse thief foolish enough to be caught with them. At some point, introductions were made, but even this did not pique her interest; they were the names of dead men. 

The thief had yet to realize this, and clung to the hope he could somehow clear up the misunderstanding and save himself. He looked at Sigrun with imploring eyes. “You and me, we shouldn't _be_ here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!” 

Sigrun arched a wry brow and lifter her shoulders in a careless shrug. “No, I'm quite certain the Empire wants my head.” 

The blond Nord gave a short laugh. “After your little show the other night? You're probably right. Eh, we're all brother and sisters in binds now.” 

The wagon creaked as it hit yet another pothole in the road and Sigrun had to catch herself from falling forward. It was easy to see how an unresisting body could end up in the undignified position she'd woke to. She cast a surreptitious glance to the man at her right and felt her face begin to heat once more. In defiance, the young woman pushed the incident from her mind, but continued to study the Nord. There was something about him, something she could not put words to, that left her awash in sympathy for her fellow captive. 

The gagged Nord, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm according to the chatty blond, had an air to him that went beyond hopeless. Of course, they were all prisoners now and none of the scenarios the young woman could imagine ended well for any of them. She knew that, and didn't doubt that that was at least part of it. But there was something more. He had the look of one who knew what it meant to be broken; knew the struggle it was to try to put the pieces back into something resembling what they once were and hold it all together in the hopes that they would heal into something resembling solidity. She knew that look. She'd seen it peering back at her from the mirror more times than she cared to count. What might have led such an esteemed man, a jarl, no less, to wear that familiar visage? She suspected she'd rather not know. Vaermina had more than enough material to use against her as it was, though Sigrun was certain the Daedric Prince's nightly torments were coming to a swift end. 

She nearly laughed aloud at the bitter irony of it. Praying before she slept had become ritual. Each night before she closed her eyes, she beseeched the gods for one night of peace, just one night free from the terrors that lurked in her dreams. Only now did the gods see fit to answer her pleas, and the price for that peace was to be her life. _So be it_. 

It wasn't that she was eager to greet death – quite the contrary. She'd done much in the name of survival, not all of it worthy of praise. But she'd endured _,_ remade herself as many times as was necessary and carried on, stronger and wiser than before. If this day was to be her last than she would see it head-on as she always had, with courage in her heart and her head held high. She stared at the horse thief in disdain. She would not meet the gods as a sniveling coward. 

Just as they entered the gates of a small village, Sigrun heard the Stormcloak utter something that caused dread to settle in her veins like ice. She jerked her head up and leaned close to the blond Nord. “What did you say?” her voice came out in a tight, choked whisper. 

“The damn elves are here.” He gestured to an Altmer woman on horseback. “No doubt the Thalmor had something to do with all of this.” 

_Thalmor._ Sigrun's lips formed the word but she had no breath to give it voice. Time slowed to a crawl as her heart sped so fast she feared it would burst. All her previous confidence shattered as panicked eyes darted back and forth, seeking an escape. _Trapped!_ Her mind screamed at her. _No way out!_ She ducked her head, allowing her black mane of hair to obscure her face, praying to any god that would listen that it was enough. She took a shuddering breath that was almost a sob, her fingers digging into her arms hard enough to cause pain. 

_Pain: a companion for so long she'd nearly forgotten what it was like to be free of its clutches. Wrists scraped bloody from the incessant chafing of metal cuffs; fingers swollen and tight from too little circulation; knees aching from hours spent kneeling on the cold stone floor; her throat clogged with the taste of blood where she'd bitten her own tongue to choke off her screams. The shuffle-scrape of footsteps as a tall shadow falls across her face, signaling the beginning of yet another session..._

The cart came to an abrupt stop, jerking Sigrun back to the present. She caught the jarl's intent gaze and felt her face color in shame as she dropped her eyes. _So much for dignity_. 

The thief whined, “Wait! We're not rebels!” 

“Face your death with some courage, thief”, the Stormcloak chided. 

“There are worse things,” Sigrun murmured. “Believe that.” 

The carts were unloaded and they were marched towards the executioner's block with swift efficiency. Sigrun followed the rest of the prisoners, keeping a wary eye on the Thalmor woman the entire time. She was more relieved than she would ever admit that the elf made no move to come towards them, instead watching the proceedings from a distance. Her purpose there was still a mystery, though Sigrun privately doubted the Thalmor were behind their capture. A quick, easy death at the chopping block didn't seem their style. 

It felt wrong, this silent submission. Every instinct shrieked at her to fight, to at least _try_ to escape her fate, but Sigrun steeled her resolve. Falling apart would change nothing at best. At worst, she might actually attract attention to herself. The last thing she wanted was to find herself under the scrutiny of those pale amber eyes. Sigrun knew with absolute certainty that the Thalmor woman was capable of making the leather clad executioner seem like Mara's agent of mercy. If given any hint of a choice, Sigrun would choose the axe every time. 

An aging Imperial in full Legion armor came forward and stood before the jarl of Windhelm. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.” 

That caught Sigrun's interest. _The Voice,_ she mused. _Like the tales of old? Well, that explains the need for a gag._ Talos himself had the gift of the Voice, before he'd ascended. She would very much like to speak with one able to claim the same power. She studied the jarl in a new light, something akin to regret heavy in her chest. No chance for that now. 

“You started this war,” the general continued. “Flung Skyrim into chaos and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!” 

A roar sounded, too distant for Sigrun to place where it originated. She was not the only one to hear it, she noticed. Several Imperials and a few of the Stormcloaks looked around as if trying to place the sound. 

“What was that?” 

The general waved a hand in dismissal, too eager to allow any disruptions now. “It's nothing. Carry on.” 

The captain saluted and ordered a waiting priestess to give them their last rights. Sigrun's face reddened in anger as the woman raised her arms and began droning about the _Eight_ Divines. The slight against Talos, no doubt for the benefit of that pointy-eared witch watching from the back of her horse, was too much for the Nord to bear. She would not die without the protection of her god- as if Mighty Talos could be banished on a whim!- and she would not let these men and women do so either. In a soft voice, Sigrun began chanting the Blessing of Talos. She could not remember the last time she had spoken the words, but they came to her, as free and clear as they had during her days as a novice when she practiced them every night before bed. She would have shouted the words if she dared, but to her shame, her courage failed her. The Thalmor woman was still too close; Sigrun could still find herself whisked from the block to an interrogation chamber if she were not careful. 

A Stormcloak soldier marched forward. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with, “ he growled. 

A wicked smirk curved the Nord woman's lips as she watched the priestess huff in offense. 

The Stormcloak showed no hesitation as he knelt before the wooden block. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials,” he taunted, every word laced with smug defiance. “Can you say the same?” 

“Go with the gods”, Sigrun whispered as the headsman swung his axe. She did not allow herself to look away from the man in his final moments, instead letting the man's bravery inspire her own. That was how a Nord should die. His end had not been earned in battle and there had been no weapon in his hand. He'd died on his knees rather than his feet, but his was a death no less honorable for it. 

When her time came, Sigrun stepped forward, determined to follow her predecessor's example. She did not wait for any prodding, but strode to the block without hesitation. _Forgive my weakness_ , she prayed as she sank to her knees. A good death might not do much to make up for past sins, but it was all she could do now. She let out a hiss as the captain shoved a knee into her back, but laid her cheek against the rough wood of the block. Sticky blood clung to her hair, and Sigrun swallowed her revulsion. It was still warm. 

The Nord woman closed her eyes as the executioner stepped back to swing, but the stroke that was to be her death never came. Another great roar bellowed, this one so close it shook the ground. Sigrun's eyes flew open and for one heart-stopping second, she believed she had already died, her soul lost in the depths of Oblivion. Facing her, with eyes that burned like embers, was a dragon so huge it encompassed the entirety of her vision. 

Sigrun stared, unable to look away. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood straight at the realization the dragon was looking right at her, with an intensity that made her blood run cold. That was not the look of a mindless beast. That was the assessing gaze of a predator who knew exactly what he was looking for- and found it. The dragon, inky as a moonless night, opened its mouth and guttural syllables, terrible in their power, poured forth and left the young woman reeling. 

Terrified cries rang out around her as the villagers fled in panic. A man's urgent shouting cut through the din and Sigrun peered up at the blond Stormcloak from the wagon through blurry eyes in an attempt to make sense of the chaos. _Ralof,_ the name bubbled to the surface of her mind _. He said his name was Ralof._

“Come on,” he yelled. She struggled to make out the words, his speech sounding distorted to her strained hearing. He pulled at her arm, insistent. “Up with you, woman! Let's go!” 

Sigrun gave a hard shake of her head in an effort to clear it and climbed to her feet. She staggered and would have fallen to the ground again were it not for the man still grasping her arm. He took off at a run, all but pulling her behind him. As soon as her senses returned, he released her and she followed of her own accord, dismayed at the sight that greeted her. 

The village was in ruins, the bodies of the dead and dying strewn about, and still the dragon attacked, not yet satisfied. Again and again, it let loose its foul speech as it reigned down fire upon the hapless people. The words twisted like snakes through Sigrun's mind. She hadn't the faintest idea what the dragon said, but she couldn't get rid of the creeping sensation that she _should_. 

They pushed through the panicked mob, making their way to the shelter of a nearby tower and the young woman took the opportunity to catch her breath. They were not here alone, she was quick to see. Ulfric and a few of his men had also made it there. 

Sigrun met the eyes of her companion and gave him a grudging nod. “I owe you a debt, Stormcloak.” She hated the very idea, but it was true. This man, a stranger to her, had saved her life, no matter how it wounded her pride. Without his intervention, she'd still be sprawled on the ground before the block, easy pickings for the dragon. 

A smile brightened the blond's soot stained features, warm and sudden as the sun peeking from behind the clouds before it was hidden again. He shrugged off her words and turned away. “No doubt you'd have done the same.” 

_Would I have done the same for him?_ Her lips tightened in a troubled frown. Once, she might have, before the world taught her the folly of sentiment. Now? She wasn't sure she liked the answer to that question, and that alone was enough to give her pause. Perhaps it was fortunate then that her circumstances did not allow for personal reflection. If she lived through this, there was plenty of time for that later. 

“Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing?” Ralof asked as he produced a small knife and began to cut through the jarl's bindings. “Could the legends be true?” 

“Legends don't burn down villages,” he replied, brows furrowed as he cast a quick glance through the door. 

Sigrun nodded in silent agreement. When the subject of a legend appeared out of nowhere and started trying to kill everything in sight, it was time to rewrite the myth as fact. 

“You there, come here.” Ulfric, knife in hand, beckoned her over. 

The young Nord complied, doing her best to ignore the warm, honeyed tones of the man's voice. Now was hardly the time. The jarl began sawing through the rope binding her wrists and Sigrun let out a relieved breath as the last of the stubborn fibers yielded to the dull blade. 

“You have my thanks,” she offered, rubbing her hands in an effort to restore circulation. She nearly yelped in surprise as Ulfric frowned and seized her forearm, turning it to expose the underside of her wrist. Sigrun snatched her hand back, but too late, she knew, to prevent the jarl from seeing the thick band of shiny pink tissue that encircled her wrist. Lips pressed into a bloodless line, the woman turned away, but not before giving the man a hard look. Jarl or no, she didn't owe the man an explanation. 

A sudden blast from outside sent shock waves rolling through the tower, and Sigrun glanced up in suspicion, not quite willing to trust the integrity of the stone after so much abuse. 

Ulfric, it seemed, was in agreement with her unspoken thoughts. “We need to move,” the jarl yelled, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Now!” 

Sigrun needed no further encouragement. Her feet pounded against the ground as she ran after the others, her long legs allowing her to easily keep up with their furious pace. As if it were waiting for her, the dragon appeared overhead. Only instinct saved the Nord as she jumped back from the sudden torrent of flame the creature released. She flung an arm up to her face to protect herself, the stink of singed hair invading her nose as she managed to stumble away from the overwhelming heat. Her chest ached from inhaling super-heated air and a wracking cough left her throat raw and her mouth tasting of copper. When she could breath again, she wiped at her streaming eyes and looked around. The beast was gone, for now at least, and she was alone. 

She hurried along an abandoned passageway that snaked behind a row of squat houses, listening for the voices of the Imperials as they scrambled to get the villagers to safety. Noble of them, and a useful distraction for her. She kept her gaze down and slipped by, keeping an eye out for anything that might serve as a weapon. The agonized moans of the dragon's victims met her ears as she passed and with clenched teeth, Sigrun did her best to ignore them. There was nothing she could do for them, she reasoned. Even her healing magic would do little for so many, and these people had been cheering for her death not minutes ago. The Imperials had their mages; let them sort them out. 

Sigrun cursed as she rounded a corner and was forced to a stop. A wall from one of the dwellings, weakened by fire, had collapsed, spilling burning rubble into the narrow path. She ducked below a beam to survey the interior of the ruined building. The stone foundation was unharmed, but the rest of the structure was comprised of wood and thatch, all aflame. Attempting to go through would likely bring the whole thing down on her head. There was no other option than to turn and go back the way she'd come. 

A great shadow darkened the ground and Sigrun saw the dragon swoop in to perch on a crumbling section of the parapet. She threw her body against the battered stone, safe from its fiery breath, but close enough to reach out and touch the beast's ebony hide. She clamped a hand to her mouth, frozen, afraid to even breathe as she waited for the dragon to move on. As soon as it took to the skies, Sigrun drew in a shaky breath and continued her frantic course through the village. If she followed the wall around the village, it was bound to lead her to the gate. All she had to do was make it to that gate and she was free. The Nord's features fixed into a scowl. Gods help anyone who got in her way. 

A flash of blue caught her eye and the woman slowed her pace enough to spot Ralof standing near the entrance to the Imperial keep, in the midst of some sort of confrontation with a legionnaire. Her relief at seeing the blond alive surprised her. She hadn't wished him harm of course, but when they'd become separated, her only thought had been getting herself to safety. The fate of her fellow prisoners had been the furthest thing from her mind. The man who had risked his life to save hers wasn't even worth a passing thought. The twinge of guilt she felt at that annoyed her. She owed him; she'd said as much. After a moment of deliberation, she changed her course. Maybe she could repay that debt now and be done with it. 

Sigrun was wary in her approach, unarmed as she was. She knew a bit of basic magic, though. Between the two of them, they might be able to handle the soldier if it became necessary. Luck was on her side for the moment, as she didn't need to test that theory quite yet. The exchange between the two men, though angry, was entirely verbal. 

“Ralof, you damned traitor!” The legionnaire cast a hateful eye toward the blond Nord. 

“We're escaping, Hadvar,” Ralof countered. “You're not stopping us this time.” 

“We will pass by you, or go through you,” Sigrun warned, drawing the attention of the two men. “The choice is yours.” 

Ralof's eyes widened as he saw her, but he remained in his defensive stance. 

The soldier cursed but made no attempt to stop them. “I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” 

The dragon roared again, and Sigrun saw its sinister black shape silhouetted in the sky. If the soldier was going to attack, he'd have done it by now. She'd had enough of this posturing. The dragon wasn't going to wait around for them to finish. 

“Ralof,” she cried. “Let's move! There's no time to stand around and bicker.” 

He jerked a nod and started for the keep. “In here.” Sigrun questioned the wisdom of entering the keep but followed anyway. Whatever threat they might find inside had to be better than the circling dragon outside. 

“I wasn't sure I'd see you again,” Ralof said as his gaze swept the room. 

_You nearly didn't_ . Sigrun shrugged. “I wasn't sure you would either. But, here we are.” 

Ralof's answering laugh died in his throat. Sigrun turned to see what was amiss and found the blond Nord standing over the body of a fallen Stormcloak. Grief etched his face as he bent and gently closed the man's eyes. Sigrun turned away to give him privacy, keeping her eye on the room's entrances. The bond between comrades often ran as deep as any forged by blood. Time was short, but Ralof would have a few moments to make his peace. She'd make sure of it. 

The other Nord sighed and stood. “You can't go around dressed in rags,” he said with a wave at her ratty attire. “Take Gunjar's things. He doesn't need them anymore.” 

The woman nodded and bent down to remove the armor. She caught a glimpse of the man's face as she did and paused, her hand still poised above him. Without thinking, Sigrun placed her hand on Gunjar's forehead. She couldn't explain why. Perhaps it was the slump to Ralof's shoulders or the way his lips pressed into a flat line. Maybe it was because the corpse at her feet now had a name. Maybe it was just an impulse brought on by the day's stress. She didn't know, and she didn't question it. “Rest now,” she murmured, eyes closed. “Your battles are done, your journey complete. Hearken, for the Heroes of Old welcome you to the Hall of Valor. May you feast at their table and join in their song.” 

She was no priestess of Arkay. Funeral rites would have to wait, but it was something. The Stormcloaks fought, in part at least, for the god she once served. This man deserved better than to lie forgotten in a keep that belonged to those who had abandoned that god. 

Sigrun opened her eyes to find Ralof staring at her. She lifted a brow in challenge. 

“You're a priestess?” 

“No!” she snapped and bit her lip. “Not..not anymore.” 

Ralof gave her another long look, but let the matter drop. Sigrun stripped the body and dressed, adjusting the ill-fitting armor as best as she could. The Nord swung the dead man's axe, getting a feel for the weapon. It was not what she was accustomed to, but the blade was sharp. It would serve for now. Ralof nodded in approval, and the two set to the task of finding a way out. 

In a delicious twist of fate, Sigrun and Ralof won the very literal key to their freedom by plucking it from the corpse of an Imperial captain. The Nord recognized her as the same woman who'd demanded she die despite them having no record of her. She'd survived the dragon's attack, only to fall to Sigrun's axe. The woman let a feral grin twist her features at the irony. 

It did not take long after that to make their way to the lower levels of the keep. She and Ralof worked as a unit, dispatching any legionnaires they came across with methodical precision. It was not until they came upon the torture chamber somewhere in the bowels of the keep that Sigrun began to take pleasure in dispatching her enemies. Prior to that, the men she slew were just an obstacle to be overcome. After she saw the condition of the bodies in that chamber, Sigrun took to her task with relish, hatred burning like a righteous star deep within her. She was an instrument of vengeance for the souls who suffered here, and she delivered retribution with the enthusiasm of any zealot. If Ralof noticed the change in her, he made no mention of it. 

They learned from a few survivors that Ulfric's whereabouts were still unknown. Sigrun sent a silent prayer for his safety, confused as to why she should care. She hadn't been in Skyrim long enough to pick a side in the war. Indeed, she wasn't even certain she should get involved at all. At one time, her choice would have been clear, but that was long ago, and she was a different person then. Her mind drifted back to the image of the tortured Stormcloaks, and her features hardened into a scowl. If Ulfric could put a stop to that, she'd swear her fealty to him in a heartbeat. But could he? That remained to be seen. 

Soon, Sigrun and Ralof found their way to a series of natural caverns. There were no more Imperials this far down, and only spiders hindered their way. Sigrun shivered in disgust as they cut their way through the giant arachnids. The woman grimaced as she wiped at the dark ichor that stained her borrowed armor, giving up with a frustrated sigh as she succeeded only in smearing it. She made a halting motion to Ralof and they took a few minutes to rest and drink from a small stream. Sigrun summoned a bit of healing magic to tend their wounds, and they picked through the spiders' lair, grabbing whatever they could salvage from the remains of the arachnids' meals. 

As they continued through the twisting passages of the caverns, Sigrun had no way of knowing how much time passed. She was trying to decide if it was hours or only several long minutes when Ralof slowed and pointed up ahead. Light poured into the tunnel. 

“There, I bet that's the way out. I knew we'd make it!” 

His enthusiasm was contagious and Sigrun flashed her companion a fierce grin as they ran for the exit. The day's events were too bizarre to be mere coincidence, but it would take more energy than she had at the moment to puzzle out their meaning. For now, she was a free woman once more, her head still attached to her shoulders. It was enough. Everything else would keep until she had a decent meal and a good night's rest. 


	3. The Soul of a Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallen priestess Sigrun is intimately familiar with hate. It has carried her, shaped her, and forged her into a woman stronger than she ever thought possible. At the behest of her dying mother, Sigrun returns to Skyrim, prepared to confront whatever destiny lies in store for her. Along the way she gets caught up in a rebellion and comes to the startling realization that hate may no longer be enough.

Chapter 3 – The Soul of A Dragon 

Ralof was easy to get along with, Sigrun decided. Now that their lives were no longer in immediate danger, the blond turn out to be quite amicable. He offered to take her to Riverwood, promising that his sister would help them. Sigrun agreed. She had no other place to go, and after such a long absence, little of her homeland remained familiar to her. Besides, she trusted Ralof – as much as she was able to trust anyone, at least. She wasn't sure how that had happened, especially in so short a time, but to her surprise, it had. He was dependable in battle and one of the most sincere individuals Sigrun had ever met. Even the silence between them was comfortable. There wasn't much more the young woman could ask for in a companion. 

Riverwood was smaller than Sigrun expected, little more than a few shops and farms. There was a stillness to the tiny village that the young Nord found hard to reconcile after all that had happened over the last several days. Her mind warned her not to believe her eyes; this sense of peace was a deception and would not last. The threat of the Imperials or the Thalmor was never truly gone. Silly fears, perhaps, but Sigrun had learned early on that a healthy dose of paranoia did much to keep one alive. 

Ralof led her to the mill, calling out to a tall blond woman who abandoned her work and ran over to embrace him. Gerdur was every bit as affable as her brother. Sigrun expected a warm welcome for Ralof, he was blood after all. She did not anticipate for that same welcome to be extended to her, and yet it was. Giving one's trust so easily seemed more than a little foolish, if she were honest. How did Gerdur, or even Ralof, for that matter, know that Sigrun did not pose a danger to their family? It was as if they never even considered the possibility that a stranger might betray the trust placed in her. Sigrun had no intention of doing so, but they couldn't _know_ that. 

Once they were out of hearing range of any passersby, Ralof told his sister and her husband Hod of what had transpired at Helgen. Sigrun watched in amusement as Gerdur's eyes widened and her mouth formed an 'O' of disbelief. Her comical expression aside, she did not blame the woman. Ralof's tale sounded like the mutterings of a man too deep in his cups. 

“A dragon?” Gerdur asked, incredulous. “You don't mean a real, live-” 

“Ralof tells it true,” Sigrun spoke up at last. “Like as not that dragon is the only reason we're standing here.” 

Ralof nodded. “Sounds crazy, I know, but we'd probably be dead otherwise.” He motioned towards Sigrun. “They had her neck on the block and the headsman ready to swing when it showed up.” 

Sigrun shifted in discomfort at the reminder. What he said was true, she realized. The beast's sudden appearance was the only thing that had prevented that swing from ever falling. The damned dragon had saved her life as much as Ralof had. She'd assumed the executioner had fled like everyone else at the sight of the dragon, but if she tried, she could summon hazy memories of a burned body, the face obscured by a dark hood. Had the creature arrived mere seconds later, her head would have been rolling in the dirt. The thought sent a shiver through her. 

“Yes, well, it got in several good attempts to kill me afterward,” Sigrun added. At least that debt did not need repaid. The scales were even as far as she was concerned. 

Gerdur sighed and shook her head. “Come on then, up to the house. Let's get you two cleaned up and fed.” 

“I don't want to put your family in danger, Gerdur...” Ralof began, but the look in his eyes belied his words. They were both exhausted, Sigrun knew. Word of the attack was bound to spread. All too soon, they could find themselves on the run again. Riverwood was likely the safest place they could find to rest up for a while, and the woman thought it was wise to take the opportunity when it was offered. 

Gerdur seemed of a similar mind. “Nonsense,” the blond woman put an arm around her brother's shoulder in an affectionate squeeze. “You and your friend are welcome to stay here as long as you need.” 

Ralof grinned and clapped a hand on Sigrun's shoulder. “See? I told you Gerdur would help us.” 

The woman stiffened at the contact but returned the gesture, falling into step beside the man. “I'm looking forward to a hot meal and a warm bed,” she admitted. 

“And a bath,” Ralof teased, wrinkling his nose as he held open the door for her. “You could do with a bath.” 

Sigrun snorted with a pointed look at the man's own filthy clothing. 

Ralof held up his hands in surrender and laughed. “Alright, point taken. But food first, yeah?” 

*****

Her fellow Nord had not been that far off the mark, teasing or not, she later realized. Sigrun studied her reflection in the small basin of water Gerdur was kind enough to bring her for washing. What little she could see of herself was far from promising. Though she'd never considered herself beautiful, the face that looked back at her seemed to have aged well beyond her twenty-six years. Her hair hung in lank tangles, still matted with blood and spider ichor. A bruise blossomed against her left temple, swollen and a livid purple. Fatigue had drained any color from her pale skin, save for the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Sigrun ran a fingertip along the scars that marred her face, lingering on the lowest. It intersected her bottom lip, giving her mouth the suggestion of a permanent frown. 

The young woman made a face, watching in fascination as the flickering light from her candle played across her features. Scars did not bother her; only a corpse didn't scar, after all. She met her own gaze, disgust evident even in her reflection as she examined her eyes. Her pallor brought out their hated color even more, the normal amber brightening to yellow. She found the shadows flattering in one aspect at least: in the dim light, the sclera looked almost normal, as white as any other Nord. Save for the odd coloring of the iris, her eyes looked nearly human. Sigrun flicked a finger at the water, a thrill of satisfaction surging through her as the water sloshed and rippled distorting her reflection beyond recognition. No, certainly not beautiful. But then, she had no use for beauty anyway. 

It was late the next morning when Sigrun awoke. She hadn't meant to sleep so long but she couldn't deny the good several hours of uninterrupted rest had done for her. She felt better than she had in ages. She found Ralof at the small table, a thick chunk of bread in hand. His face broke into a grin as he saw her, and he kicked a chair out, waving her over. She nodded to him in greeting before sliding into her seat. 

“You're looking better,” Ralof held out a plate of assorted meats and cheeses. 

“Good as new,” Sigrun agreed, helping herself to a few pieces. “I'll have to thank your sister again when I see her next.” 

Ralof waved a hand in dismissal. “She and Hod are at the mill, won't be back until sometime this evening. It's just us for now. Well, Frodnar, my nephew, is around somewhere, but we aren't likely to see him until Gerdur drags him home.” 

Sigrun remembered the boy from yesterday, pestering Ralof with questions about the war until Gerdur had chased him off. The boy was likeable enough, she supposed, but the Nord had always regarded children as some sort of exotic species. They were fascinating to watch, but could prove dangerous if one got too close. Even as a child herself, Sigrun had kept her distance. Children talked, her mother had warned her. If such talk made it to the wrong ears, she and her mother would be forced to flee yet again under the cover of night. Isolation, she had learned, was preferable to constant roaming. 

Ralof finished eating and pushed the plate aside. “Feels good to be home again, if only for a little while.” 

“Will you be leaving soon?” Sigrun asked. 

“Not for a few days, yet,” the blond answered, leaning back in his chair. “But I need to get back to Windhelm soon. Still a war on, you know? Hey, you should come with me, join up with the Stormcloaks. You've seen the true face of the Empire. Skyrim needs more True Sons and Daughters willing to fight for her.” 

Sigrun shrugged. She wasn't opposed to the Stormcloaks and she had no great love for the Empire. Still, revenge was poor reasoning to join a war. She wanted to know the man whose banner she'd be fighting under before she made any commitments. The risks were too great to take on for just anyone. “We'll see,” she murmured. 

Ralof seemed to accept that answer well enough, and for that she was grateful. He changed the subject and they chatted for some time about different things until the two fell into a companionable silence. Sigrun was just getting ready to make her excuses and leave the table when Ralof spoke once more. 

“Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?” 

The young woman shook her head and replied, “I was born in Skyrim, but my mother and I left for Cyrodil when I was about twelve. We...moved around a lot. Never stayed in one place for very long.” 

“And you were on your way home when the Imperials picked you up?” 

Sigrun nodded, feeling it best not to push the bounds of their budding friendship with the entire truth. “It seems much has changed while I was away.” 

“That it has,” Ralof sighed. “That it has.” 

As soon as she felt it polite to do so, Sigrun left Ralof and went to sort her meager belongings. While she owned little, she'd managed to pick up a few pelts and other goods on the journey from Helgen that, with a little luck, she could trade for fresh supplies. She still had no set destination in mind, but she wasn't going to get far at all with nothing but rusty weapons and a couple of mangy pelts. 

It wasn't until Sigrun had everything laid out before her that the woman noticed anything amiss. _My amulet!_ The Nord's hand flew to her throat out of reflex, but of course it wasn't there. Like a mad woman, she searched her pack, turning it inside out and shaking it. When it failed to produce the missing talisman, she flung it aside in disgust and turned her wrath on the bed. Blankets and furs were shaken out and then tossed into a heap on the floor, the linen sheets soon drifting down to join them. Not even the straw mattress was safe from her fury. 

After a second and then third search of everything yielded no result, Sigrun sank to the floor, head in her hands. She bit her lip hard to hold back the tears that burned her eyes and threatened to spill over. After everything she'd went through to get the amulet back, she'd gone and lost the damn thing anyway. She had no idea how long she sat there, guilt warring with helpless anger until a startled gasp came from behind her. 

Sigrun whipped her head around and saw Gerdur. The older woman stood gaping in shock as she took in the state of the room. Bewildered blue eyes turned her way and Sigrun could not meet her gaze. Bad enough that she was acting like a child who'd dropped her sweet roll. Now, her hostess, who had been nothing but kind to her, was a witness to such behavior. 

“What happened here?” Gerdur breathed, coming to stand behind her. 

“I- I'm sorry,” Sigrun apologized, hating the waver in her voice. “I was trying to find something I lost. An amulet. I...” The young woman trailed off, lifting an arm in a motion meant to encompass the mess she'd made of things, uncertain how to explain. “I'll clean it up,” she finished in a rush, frustrated with the entire situation. 

Something softened in Gerdur's face and the woman placed a comforting hand on Sigrun's back. “This amulet is important to you, I take it?” 

Taking a deep breath, Sigrun nodded. “My mother gave it to me when I was a girl. It's all I have left of her.” 

“I see.” Gerdur placed her hands on her hips and looked around the room once more. “Well, you can tell me what it looks like while we clean this up. I'll keep an eye out for it around the house and tomorrow I'll have Hod take a look around the mill. If it's here, we'll find it. That's the best I can do I'm afraid.” 

“Thank you,” Sigrun whispered, rising to her feet. She gave an awkward shuffle, still not quite able to meet the older woman's eyes. “I really am sorry for all of...this.” 

Gerdur waved off her apology. “Nonsense. Now, give me a hand with this. I came to tell you supper is nearly ready. We'd best hurry, or Ralof and Hod will have it all gone by the time we're through.” 

Supper was a quiet but peaceful affair. Gerdur asked Hod to look around the mill for an amulet of Talos the next morning, but made no further mention of Sigrun's earlier tantrum, a fact that won her the younger woman's undying gratitude. Once the meal was finished she helped Gerdur with the chores. 

“Ralof told me he's leaving for Windhelm the day after tomorrow,” Gerdur said while the two women stacked the dishes and tidied the table. “Have you given any thought to where you might go?” 

Sigrun shook her head, lips pursed in thought. “But I won't take advantage of your hospitality,” she was quick to add. 

“That's not what I said. I told you and Ralof you were welcome to stay for as long as you needed and that's what I meant.” The older woman hesitated a moment before continuing. “There is something you can do for me, though.” 

“Anything.” 

“If the dragon attacks, Riverwood is defenseless. Someone needs to tell Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun. Ask him to send whatever troops he can. If you do this for me, I'll be in your debt.” 

“I'll leave in the morning,” Sigrun promised glad to have a destination in mind. “I just need to get some supplies and then I'll leave right after.” 

“Good,” Gerdur sighed. “I'll sleep a bit easier then. Take whatever you need from the house. For supplies, check the Riverwood Trader. Lucan can be a bit pigheaded, but he'll give you a fair price.” She turned and laid a hand over Sigrun's. “Thank you for doing this.” 

“It's the least I could do,” Sigrun said, trying to hide her sudden discomfort. “You've been nothing but kind to me.” 

“Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine.” Gerdur smiled. “Go get some rest. I'll finish up here.” 

*****

Lucan had been every bit as fair as Gerdur promised, and it was still early morning when Sigrun left the Riverwood Trader with not only her supplies but a job as well. It seemed simple enough: find the golden claw heirloom that had been stolen from the Trader and return it. Of course, it was now somewhere in Bleak Falls Barrow- a ruin Ralof had warned her away from- and there was a good chance that the thieves who stole the claw in the first place were going to object to her coming after it. The Nord woman hesitated for the briefest of moments then made up her mind. She had about ten Septims left to her name. That wasn't even enough to eat on for more than a day or two. This job shouldn't be anything she couldn't handle. Sigrun grimaced. Avitus had made her do worse for less. 

Camilla, Lucan's sister, had insisted on showing her the way. Lucan was not happy with the idea of his sister leaving the village and voiced his displeasure. This lead to another round of arguing between the siblings that had Sigrun rolling here eyes. She agreed with Lucan, but rather than get involved in the squabble, she simply left. She didn't need directions. The barrow was visible from the village, and from what she'd been able to discern before she left, the road went right by the place. Any fool could follow a road. 

As expected, the barrow was crawling with bandits, and the young Nord was attacked before she ever made it inside. Two of the thieves were easy enough to take down. Two-handed weapons were slow and clumsy; it was just a matter of being quick enough on her feet to stay out of their way and strike while they were recovering from a swing. The third, far more dextrous than her companions, proved troublesome. Sigrun actually had to duck behind a column to shield herself from incoming arrows and heal her wounds. She kept a wary eye on the bandit's movements, slipping around the stone support when needed to keep behind cover. The young woman let out a growl of pure frustration. _Blasted archers!_ As soon as she heard the hiss of the next arrow being released, Sigrun released a feral cry and charged as fast as she could towards the woman, axe raised. The archer's mouth dropped open in shock. She seemed frozen, unsure what to do. She dropped her bow and grabbed for a mace at her belt but by then it was too late. Eyes wild, Sigrun swung her axe with all her might, grinning like a lunatic as it made contact with a satisfying crunch. The archer let loose a sighing moan and crumpled to the ground. Sigrun nudged the body with her boot, eying the woman's armor in appreciation. They were of a similar build, and it had to fit better than the Stormcloak armor she was still wearing. With a wicked smirk, she stripped it from the woman's corpse and stuffed it into her back. The dead had no need for armor. 

Inside the barrow was a bit easier. The narrow halls and confined chambers didn't allow the same freedom as the outdoors did, but it also meant her enemies had a more difficult time as well. It was harder for enemies to surround her in here, and Sigrun used that to her advantage as she cut her way through the ruins. There were a few traps, but most were simple enough to avoid as long as she was careful. It wasn't long before she had the claw, looted from the corpse of the Dumner who'd stolen it. The golden claw, it turned out, had a purpose; she would never have made it through the barrow without it. 

The last cavernous chamber was damp, the roar of rushing water magnified as it echoed off the wet stone walls. Sigrun followed a set of carved steps up to a platform backed by a high, ornate wall. The wall was covered by a series of chiseled symbols the Nord guessed to be words. A strange sibilant chanting came from the wall, so quiet at first that Sigrun had to strain her ears to hear it. As she stepped closer to the wall, drawn by some inexplicable force, the chanting swelled until it drowned out all other sound, a single syllable etched into her mind with such force it left her weak and gasping. The woman clutched her head and dropped to her knees, her mouth falling open in a silent scream. Just when she feared she would go mad, the tumultuous choir stopped, and Sigrun was left panting, the waterfalls once more the only sound filling her ears. 

The young woman pushed herself to stand on shaking legs. As soon as her feet were under her, a sarcophagus she only now noticed flew open and yet another of the draugr that populated the barrow stepped out. It gripped a battleaxe in skeletal hands and shouted something at her. To Sigrun's horror, her own weapon was flung from her hand by some unseen force. The woman dodged as the draugr's axe swung toward her, the great blade passing so close to her she could feel the air displaced by the weapon against her skin. Sigrun gritted her teeth and readied a fire spell. It was weak, but all she had at the moment. It served its purpose and the Nord was able to keep the draugr at bay until she managed to recover her axe. Weakened as it was by her spell, the undead warrior was no match for her after that. 

Sigrun sheathed her axe and took a shuddering breath as she looked around the cavern. Once she was certain nothing else lay waiting, she gave the cavern a quick sweep, grabbing anything that looked valuable. She found a strange stone tablet beneath the draugr and bent to examine it. Its strange symbols meant nothing to her, but perhaps someone else might be able to make sense of them. She shoved the tablet into her pack and climbed the steps to exit the ruins. Whiterun still waited and she'd had her fill of this place. 

*****

Several uneventful hours later, Sigrun spotted the ancient walls surrounding Whiterun. The last large settlement she'd set foot in had been the Imperial City. While Whiterun could not compete with the capital of Cyrodil in either size or grandeur, it possessed a majesty of its own as it sprawled across the hills. As she approached the city's enormous gates, Sigrun was surprised to find a guard dressed in a yellow uniform blocking her entrance. 

“Halt,” the man called, raising a hand. “The city's closed - official business only.” 

“I have business with Jarl Balgruuf,” she responded, impatient with the delay. “I seek the jarl's aid on behalf of Riverwood. The village is defenseless against the dragon attacks.” 

At that, the guard relented and moved aside. As she passed, she heard him mutter something about her stirring up trouble and gave the man a look of amusement. She'd had enough trouble to last her the next decade. While she could not deny that it had a way of finding her, she had no plans to go looking for trouble in his city. 

Dragonsreach sat at the highest point of Whiterun, its towering might overlooking the city. According to legend, the keep had once served as a prison to a dragon. As she looked up in awe at the formidable structure, Sigrun had no problem believing that particular tale to be true. The looming spires and peaked roofs gave the entire fortress an oppressive air that didn't quite fit with the beauty of the rest of the city and left the Nord uncomfortable. 

Sigrun entered Dragonsreach without hindrance only to be stopped by an armed Dunmer woman as soon as she attempted to approach the jarl's throne. The young woman could not contain a heavy sigh as she clenched her jaw in irritation. This was becoming a habit, and not one she was at all fond of. 

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” the woman demanded, ruby eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“I have news of the dragon attack in Helgen,” Sigrun stated, pleased to note her voice carried none of the agitation she was feeling at that precise moment. “And the citizens of Riverwood ask the jarl for troops in the event of another attack.” 

Sheathing her sword, the dark elf took a grudging step back. “Very well. But know that I'll be watching you.” She eyed Sigrun's borrowed armor in disdain. “One wrong move, and I'll see you tossed in the dungeon for the rest of your days.” 

Sigrun scoffed at the threat and strode by the woman. She stood before Balgruuf and dipped her head in respect. She was not quite sure how one ought to act in the presence of a jarl and hoped her gesture of deference would suffice. Boot-licking was not not in her nature. 

Balgruuf shifted on his throne and waved her forward. “So, you were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?” 

“Oh, yes,” Sigrun assured. “I had a great view while the Imperials were trying to cut off my head.” 

The jarl seemed taken aback by her casual statement, but he was quick to recover. “Really? Well, Imperial business is none of my concern. Tell me about this dragon.” 

Sigrun gave the quickest version of events she could. “Last I saw, the dragon was headed this way,” she finished. 

The Nord woman listened, arms crossed, as the jarl argued with his steward and housecarl for the next few minutes. The steward, an Imperial by the looks of him, urged his jarl to take a passive approach to the problem, citing some silly fear about angering the jarl of another hold. Sigrun's lip curled in disdain at the suggestion that Whiterun's walls alone would hold back a dragon. If that was what he truly believed, he deserved to be buried under those very walls as the dragon brought them down around him. 

At last, it seemed Balgruuf tired of the bickering and put a stop to it. He sent Irileth, the Dunmer, away with orders to dispatch troops to Riverwood and Sigrun allowed herself to relax. She'd kept her word to Gerdur. If anything happened to the small village now, it was not her doing. The young woman paused, unsure if she was free to leave or if it would be best to wait for a dismissal. 

Balgruuf's attention fell on her once more, saving her from the possibility of committing some kind of social blunder. Or worse. He praised her for her initiative and promised he would not forget what she had done for Whiterun. It all seemed a bit much, really. He'd already heard about the dragon before she'd arrived. That much was obvious from what she'd overheard. That Riverwood would be helpless against a dragon attack was also something that should be obvious, especially to the jarl. Exactly what kind of favor had she done for him to be so pleased? He’d even rewarded her with set of Imperial armor. 

Sigrun plastered what she hoped was a gracious smile on her face and reached for the armor. All the gold in Skyrim wouldn't be enough to get her to wear this, but it wouldn't do to offend. She questioned the meaning behind the gift. An unspoken warning, perhaps? Or was it simply the first bit of junk the steward grabbed from the armory? Her smile turned genuine as her mind conjured images of strapping the armor to one of the wooden dummies she'd seen in the training yard. She just might find a use for it yet. 

“There is another thing you could do for me,” the jarl continued. His eyes swept over her in a look of appraisal. “Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps.” 

She tried to decide if she should be offended or not as Balgruuf went on about introducing her to his court wizard, Farengar. She was pulled from her musing when the jarl stood and told her to follow him. He led her to the mage's study and after a quick introduction, left the the two of them alone. 

Farengar eyed her with the sort of distaste one usually reserved for skeevers and mudcrabs. He spoke in measured tones, careful to enunciate each word. Sigrun had the sneaking suspicion this was for _her_ benefit and her hands itched to throttle the man. She settled for drawing herself to her full height, noting with petty glee that doing so forced the mage to look up at her. It did little to tamper his smug superiority, but she'd take her victories where she could. 

“I could use someone to fetch something for me,” Farengar allowed, as though he were about to bestow some great privilege upon her. 

Sigrun arched a brow and sighed when the man failed to explain any further. Fetch? She wasn't a dog, trained to heel at his command. Whiterun was becoming less appealing the longer she was here. These people couldn't seem to decide if she was a criminal or a servant. “What would you have me...fetch?” She bit off the last word. 

The mage gave her the grin of a master pleased with his pet's latest trick. “Straight to the point, eh? I like that. Leave the details to your betters, am I right?” 

The urge to thrash the little mage was back, tenfold this time. Sigrun clenched her hands into fists as her sparks flooded her vision. It would not do to murder the jarl's court wizard, though the temptation to do so was growing by the minute. As he prattled on about where to find the accursed tablet, the Nord held up a hand to stop him. 

“Wait, you said Bleak Falls Barrow?” 

“Weren't you listening?” the mage asked, voice sharp with irritation. “Perhaps Jarl Balgruuf has overestimated your abilities if you can't so much as follow simple instructions.” 

Sigrun ignored him as she rummaged in her pack. The sooner she was done with him, the better. 

Her hands closed around the tablet from the barrow and she thrust it at the mage, albeit with more force than necessary. “Is this the tablet?” 

Farengar's eyes lit up as he nodded and carried the tablet to his desk. “Indeed,” he exclaimed. “I may have been wrong about you after all.” 

Before she could respond, Irileth burst into the room. “There's been sightings of a dragon near the city! Farengar, the jarl wants to see you.” She turned to Sigrun almost as an afterthought. “You should come, too.” 

The little mage's eagerness made her sick. He had no idea of the devastation one was capable of leaving in its wake. If he was half as intelligent as he thought he was, the fool would be cursing a dragon's appearance, not blathering on about how exciting it all was. Let him see how far his smugness got him against the beast. Sigrun doubted any of his so called research would do him any good then. 

She wasn't sure why she should be included in this meeting. She assumed the jarl wanted to mount some sort of defense for his city, and that was in no way her area of expertise. They met the jarl on the upper floor of the fortress just as Balgruuf was briefing one of the guards. The man was out of breath and covered in a myriad of small scrapes and lacerations. His clothing was singed, some parts burned through. The young Nord swallowed against a sudden queasiness in her stomach. She was certain she was going to dislike where this was going. 

Balgruuf was quick to confirm her fears. “I need your help again friend. I want you to go with my men and fight this dragon -” 

“I'm no dragon slayer, my jarl,” Sigrun was quick to protest. This was ludicrous! Bandits, she could handle. Even the occasional draugr was fine. What Balgruuf expected now was insanity. She hadn't fought her way through Helgen just to come to Whiterun and throw her life away at some jarl's behest. 

“You survived Helgen,” Balgruuf pointed out. “You have experience no one else here does.” 

Sigrun coughed, desperate to cover the barking laugh that fought its way past her lips. Experience? If fleeing in terror gave one experience, then oh yes, she had it in spades. 

“Help Irileth kill this dragon before it can attack Whiterun,” the jarl said, the command clear. 

This was no request then. Should she refuse, there would be repercussions. Sigrun heaved a sigh of disgust and took off at a trot after the housecarl. She needed to take a serious look at the direction her life was heading in, she mused. There had been so many insane twists lately it was starting to make her head spin. 

*****

Irileth assembled a group of guards near Whiterun's gates and launched into a speech about glory and honor that once upon a time even Sigrun might have found stirring. The problem was that the young Nord had witnessed first hand what they were about to face. There was nothing honorable or glorious about the burnt corpses left behind at Helgen. The Dunmer could pretty it up as much as she wished, but it didn't change the reality in the slightest. A chorus of cheering cries went up around her, morale higher than she expected. 

“We are so dead,” one man muttered as the troops began filing out of the city. Sigrun put a hand over her mouth to hide her humorless smirk. That one had the right of it. 

There was no dragon at the watch tower when they arrived, but smoke billowed towards the sky from several fires and the ground surrounding the tower was littered with stone debris. Otherwise, all appeared calm, but it was the kind of calm that in Sigrun's experience most often preceded disaster. The Nord drew her axe and approached the tower with the same caution she would give a wolf den. A man appeared from where he crouched behind a fallen chunk of wall and waved her back with frantic motions. 

“No! Get back!” The soldier's voice shook with pure terror. “It's still here somewhere.” The man's face blanched as he looked to the sky. “Kynareth save us! Here he comes again!” 

Sigrun sympathized with the man. She tightened her grip around the hilt of her axe and jumped down into the dry grass. Her features hardened into a mask of determination as she watched the dragon swoop in from the south. It let loose a roar that seemed to vibrate against her bones before spewing a line of flame across the ground. Archers drew their bows and for once Sigrun cursed her lack of skill. She was useless as long as the dragon kept to the skies. The beast continued its teasing flight, circling and dipping, always out of reach, for several long minutes. The Nord raised her weapon in the air and shrieked in futile rage. 

The beast must have spotted her because it made an abrupt change in course and stopped to hover above her head. Fire rained down on the Nord, and she threw herself flat and rolled in an attempt to evade it. No sooner had she climbed to her feet when a sudden violent flap of its wings knocked her back down again. Sigrun spat a vile curse as she wiped blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. If she didn't know better, she'd swear the cursed thing was taunting her. 

From somewhere behind her, a man's voice cried out in agony. She turned just in time to see the dragon take wing once more, a figure flailing wildly in its jaws. A quick flick of the beast's massive head sent the now limp body tumbling toward the ground. Sigrun snatched up the soldier's discarded bow, her blood practically boiling. She wasn't certain by any means that she could even kill a dragon, but she was damned sure going to try. She nocked an arrow and drew back, following the dragon as it made another lazy circle. She had just enough time to loose it before the creature landed in front of her, causing the ground to tremble. As it began to crawl towards her, Sigrun spied the feathery shaft of her arrow sticking out of the thick hide. It seemed even she could hit a target the size of a dragon. 

As soon as the dragon opened its mouth, Sigrun darted out of the way of the oncoming gout of fire. She hacked with all of her strength at the dragon's flank, taking care to stay out of reach of its teeth and breath. She forgot the great serpentine length of the beast's tail and cried out in pain as it lashed at her with bone-breaking force. Sigrun's leg buckled beneath her and the beast took flight once more. 

_“Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!”_ The dragon roared. It was weakening; it did not stay in the air quite so long this time around. 

Black spots appeared before Sigrun's eyes and she bit her cheek to keep from screaming at the pain in her leg as she clapped a hand to the injured limb and let her healing magic flow. Fatigue hit her hard as she drained every last bit of her magicka on the wound but by the time she was through she could stand once more. The woman limped to where the dragon was grounded and joined in the attack with the others. Her strength was flagging; she didn't know how much longer she could keep up such a grueling battle. One moment bled into the next until at last the dragon fell. It did not get up again. 

Sigrun raised her weapon and cheered along with the others. They'd done it! She still wasn't sure how, but the beast had been defeated. Her eyes swept over the assembled soldiers when a hush fell over the crowd. The dragon's remains had caught fire, the flames quickly devouring the corpse and converging into swirls of golden light. Sigrun watched in silent fascination as the light streamed towards her. 

Without warning the golden energy slammed into her. She braced herself, but there was no pain. Much like the word from the wall, there was only an overwhelming presence, the sense of something forcing its way in. It did not hurt, but it was not comfortable. Sigrun's mouth ran dry and her head felt fuzzy, as though she'd consumed too much mead. For one dizzying instant, she felt as though she were soaring high above the clouds, the world around her miniscule and insignificant. A sudden sorrow filled her as though she mourned a lost brother, and the Nord blinked away tears. All too soon, she was flung back to herself, the strange sensations gone. 

_Mirmulnir_ . The word teased at her mind, gentle as the caress of a summer breeze. Though she couldn't explain it, Sigrun was certain the word was the name of the dragon they'd just killed. Puzzled, she opened her eyes, only to find the soldiers from Whiterun clustered around her, whispering amongst themselves. Their faces bore expressions that ranged from awed to intimidated, but every last pair of eyes was focused on her. 

“You're Dragonborn,” one breathed, his tone reverent. 

Sigrun shook her head in denial. She'd heard the stories- no priestess worth her salt was ignorant of what it meant to be Dragonborn. Talos himself had been gifted with the Dragonblood. But her? It wasn't possible. She'd betrayed the very god she'd pledged herself to. There were plenty of others more worthy of the Gift than her. For one aching moment, she wanted to believe, yearned for the comfort of knowing her transgressions were forgiven and she was once more a servant of Talos. She quelled her traitorous desires and steeled her spine. It was not to be. 

“You stole that dragon's soul,” one guard tried to reason. “Absorbed its power. That makes you Dragonborn.” 

“Shout. Only those with the dragonblood can Shout without training.” 

A chorus of voices went up around her, each urging her to shout, as if that would settle the matter once and for all. Sigrun wanted to refuse, to insist that she did not have the ability, but deep down, she _knew_. She wet her lips, heart hammering, and opened her mouth. The word from the wall appeared in her mind. All she had to do was reach out and take it and it would be hers. A rush of raw, familiar power poured from her throat as her lips formed the word. As soon as it left her mouth, it became a tangible thing, and the people in front of her staggered under the weight of it. 

“ _FUS!_ ” 

A hush fell over the assembled men. For a single moment, even the nearby wildlife appeared to have stilled. Then, the silence was shattered as a dozen voices began speaking at once. Sigrun ignored the talk going on around her and stared at the skeleton. Bones were all that remained of the creature who only moments ago was a living, breathing thing. Her whole body felt numb as her mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened. She'd Shouted. That fact, combined with what had occurred with the dragon left little room for interpretation. And yet, it made no sense. She had _failed_. She'd broken her vows. 

It was all too much. She needed to get away from here. She needed time to think, to put some sort of order to the madness swirling around her _._ She needed to put as much distance as possible between her and the crowd of gawking people before she lost her already tenuous grip on the little piece of control she had left and did something she would very much come to regret. 

Sigrun turned and fled, running as fast as she was able down the stone path. Her leg throbbed in protest and she had no doubt she would pay dearly for the abuse, but that was later. All that mattered now was getting as far away as possible. 

_“DOV-AH-KIIN!”_

The word split the sky with a terrible crack of thunder and the very ground trembled under its force. Sigrun's heart stuttered in her chest, a feeling of foreboding settling deep within her. She had no idea what that word meant, only the certainty that she would never be able to run fast enough or far enough to escape it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is in the works. Also, if anyone is interested, you can find a picture of Sigrun here:
> 
> http://skyrimforums.org/sf/useralbums/31471/standalone


	4. Róta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallen priestess Sigrun is intimately familiar with hate. It has carried her, shaped her, and forged her into a woman stronger than she ever thought possible. At the behest of her dying mother, Sigrun returns to Skyrim, prepared to confront whatever destiny lies in store for her. Along the way she gets caught up in a rebellion and comes to the startling realization that hate may no longer be enough.

Sigrun ran until she could run no more. As the initial rush of adrenaline ebbed, the pain in her leg spiked in an unforgiving crescendo, forcing her to slow her pace until she all she could manage was an awkward hobble. Each step was torment; the twisting of an impaled dagger digging just a bit deeper every time her foot so much as brushed the ground. Taking as much of her weight as possible off her leg, the Nord fumbled in her pack until her fingers closed around a healing potion. She pulled the cork with her teeth and downed it, grimacing at the bitter taste of distilled herbs. It would not set a broken bone, she knew, but it might be enough to repair some of the damage sustained in her flight from the watchtower. 

After a few minutes, Sigrun felt confident enough to test her theory. With great care, she shifted her weight to the injured limb bit by bit until she was standing at her full height. There was plenty of discomfort, but it was no longer the screaming agony it had been. The potion would serve until she could find a suitable place to make camp and tend it properly. 

Finding shelter in the plains was no easy task but traveling at night in her current state was a foolish venture. Sigrun chose an outcrop that was just tall enough to provide some protection from the perpetual winds, and set to building a fire. It produced more smoke than she would have liked, but with only the native flora at hand to serve as fuel, it would have to do. 

By the fire’s dim light, the Nord woman peeled back the leather of her breeches and examined her leg. An ugly bruise still darkened a large portion of her lower leg, though it was fading from her earlier treatment. She prodded the length of her shin with practiced fingers, hissing in a breath at one particularly tender spot. She felt no bumps or ridges to indicate anything was out of alignment and thanked the gods for her luck as she cast another healing spell. The bone might never be as strong as it once was, but her leg would hinder her no more. 

Sigrun leaned against the stone, using her pack as a pillow. She was exhausted but would not allow herself the vulnerability of sleep. The night was still, the chirping of insects the only sound floating on the cool air. That was not to say predators were not lurking nearby. Wolves, bears and sabrecats also called this land home, to say nothing of her more intelligent enemies. _Like dragons._

The thought came unbidden, but once it took root, the young woman found she could not shake it loose. The specter of Mirmulnir floated before her mind’s eye, the flames licking along the great dragon’s body, the ethereal light that shone through in blinding beams as the hide peeled and cracked and fell away in shimmering embers. A thrill of elation swallowed any lingering sorrow at the beast’s demise. All was as it should be. The dragon had challenged her and lost, its soul forfeit. It was the birthright of the strong to rule the weak; this was undeniable truth. Those who chafed under the reigns of their betters had but to prove their own strength. Power was not simply a means to an end, it was that end, and any too weak to grasp it for themselves would not be permitted to flourish. 

Mirmulnir, whole again, stared at her with piercing eyes, his head cocked in amusement. Sigrun met his scrutiny with defiance, but her confidence faltered as the creature’s ivory scales darkened to midnight black, the already massive body growing to impossible proportions. Gold bled away to be replaced by crimson, and the dragon’s eyes glowed hot as any forge. The Nord was pinned beneath that searing gaze, desperate to look away but helpless to do so. Mirmulnir was not the only dragon, and he was far from the strongest. This too, was simple truth, and the same rules applied. Others waited, called by the stolen power that sang in her blood. Only the strongest would survive, and if she showed any hint of weakness, her own soul would be the next devoured. 

Sigrun awoke to her own thrashing and jerked upright, the furious beating of her heart thunderous in her ears. Acting on instinct, she grabbed her axe as she looked around in confusion, every muscle poised to run, but no black dragon came to snatch her up. The Nord sat for several minutes, her grip around her weapon tight enough to chase the feeling from her fingers, as she fought to get her erratic breathing under control. _All a dream,_ she told herself, over and over _. Just a dream. Serves you right for falling asleep in the first place._

The fire had burned down to nothing, but Secunda and Masser had risen as she slept, providing enough light for her to see by. Sigrun took several large gulps from her waterskin and splashed some on her face in an effort to cool her heated skin. With a heavy sigh, the Nord scrubbed at her eyes in an attempt to wipe away the remnants of her nightmare. She was not one to give much credence to visions, believing them to be nothing more than superstitious fancy. They made for interesting tales, to be sure, but they had no place outside the pages of story books. What, then, made this dream different? Why could she still recall every detail as though she’d actually been there? Sigrun feared she already knew the answer: the dream was not a dream at all, but a warning. 

******

The land was still cloaked in the darkness of night when Sigrun packed her meager supplies and took to the road. Her plan had been to wait for dawn before setting out, but that idea had fallen by the wayside after her impromptu nap. The dream had left her more shaken than she wanted to admit. It loomed over her like a physical presence, charging her limbs with nervous energy and leaving the young Nord looking over her shoulder as if she might be able to spot it somewhere, peering out at her from amongst the scrub. Her growing restlessness had demanded she move. The destination was a minor detail she could work out along the way; the simple act of putting one foot before the other was what mattered, and having her body in motion helped to still her mind. 

A soft yipping cough came from somewhere to her right and Sigrun inhaled a sharp breath, only to let it out in a huff as a small fox trotted out of the brush. The creature froze when it saw her, yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness. The Nord made a shooing gesture, irritated with her own disquiet. 

“Off with you,” she said, modulating her voice to seem less threatening. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

The fox’s nose twitched as it scented the air, its eyes staying locked on her a moment longer. Then it gave another yip and darted back into the night on silent footsteps. Sigrun shook her head and resumed her pace, ignoring the hard thumping of her heart. This business of jumping at every little sound like a timid hare was getting tiresome. She’d slain a dragon, for Kyne’s sake! It was high time she stopped fretting over her own shadow like frightened prey. With new resolve, Sigrun straightened, head high, and continued her trek down the road. 

The jet canvas of the sky faded to a muted gray, herald to the approaching dawn. Far in the distance, a series of lights bobbed and flickered, winking out at times, only to spring back into existence a few moments later. Torchlight, The Nord realized, still far enough away that she had some time yet before she crossed paths with whomever might be sharing the road with her. Time enough to change her course, if she chose. The thought gave her pause, but was soon discarded. Travel was easier on the road, and her own lack of a light source gave her the advantage. If her fellow travelers proved to be the sort she wanted to avoid, she could slip away before they ever knew she was there. 

Within minutes, Sigrun was close enough to determine that the lights were in fact torches, though the faces of those carrying them remained shrouded in shadow. Curious, the Nord woman advanced. She counted four, two robed in garments so dark they nearly blended in with the night. The torchlights wavered, and Sigrun caught the glint of burnished mail. Icy fingers trailed along her spine as the delicate scaled pattern etched into the armor became clear. _Elven_. 

Understanding turned her blood to ice: she’d manage to stumble upon a party of justiciars. As far as people she wanted to avoid went, the Thalmor topped the list. The intelligent thing to do would be to turn around right there and go back the way she’d come, and Sigrun did nearly that. Only the presence of the fourth figure stopped her retreat. A lone woman walked between two hooded Altmer, her bound hands and the defeated hunch of her shoulders making it obvious she was not part of the patrol. 

Though it was not in her character to play the gallant hero, Sigrun could not bring herself to leave the prisoner to her fate. She knew too well what the poor woman would suffer at the hands of the justiciars before they allowed her the mercy of killing her. Many were as adept in Restoration as they were the more offensive forms of magic. They considered torture a form of art, the ability to prolong an interrogation beyond a subject’s mental and physical endurance a true test of talent. If pressed, Sigrun would admit that perhaps there was some measure of skill involved in keeping one alive who craved nothing more than death. That did not mean she was willing to stand idle while another was subjected to it. The opportunity to exact a measure of revenge was just an added bonus. 

Sigrun gripped her axe, the cold weight of it reassuring in her hand as she cobbled together a plan of attack. The two mages posed the biggest threat; she would need to see to them first. Magi were formidable foes, but they needed distance to cast their spells. Deprive them of that, and they were defenseless. It was just a matter of getting close enough. In the end, Sigrun decided a frontal assault was her best bet. She was not suited to tactics of stealth or surprise, and while her strategy certainly lacked finesse, she was counting on the natural arrogance prominent in so many of their kind to aid her. 

The Nord stepped into the halo of light spilled by the torches and tightened her hand around her weapon. As she’d hoped, the Altmer gave her little more than an annoyed glare. 

“Move along,” one of the mages snapped in an imperious tone. “You’re interfering with official Thalmor business!” 

Sigrun bared her teeth in a nasty grin and drew in a breath before unleashing her Thu’um, pouring every ounce of power she could muster into the single word. 

“ _FUS!”_

The mage let loose a cry of surprise and staggered back before falling to one knee. The torch he carried slipped from his hand and sputtered but remained lit. Shrieks of outrage went up around her, but the Nord woman wasted no time as she advanced on the fallen elf. She brought her axe down with all her might on the mage, the sharp edge cutting through the fabric of his robes with ease and sinking into the soft flesh beneath. A gurgling wheeze burst from his throat and Sigrun felt a surge of satisfaction as blood bubbled from his lips. 

She pulled her axe free with a grunt and took a step back, failing to notice the justiciar behind her until a bolt of lightning took her square in the back. Sigrun’s face twisted into a rictus of pain as the current tore through her, locking her limbs and arching her back in agony. Her heart stuttered and her lungs refused to draw breath. She wanted to scream, but her voice was frozen behind clenched teeth. She must have bitten her tongue because blood filled her mouth, threatening to choke her. Her vision grew blurry, dimming around the edges, but the Nord could just make out a shadowy figure creeping up behind her tormentor. An instant later, the torrent of electricity stopped. 

Sigrun fell to the ground gasping, her legs no longer able to support her. Tremors still wracked her body, her muscles bunching in lingering spasms. Her hair clung to her face, singed and matted, still crackling with static. She coughed as she fought for breath and struggled to stand. A shadow falling across her was her only warning before the attack came. She raised her axe just in time to meet the blow of the elven soldier’s sword, the impact sending jolts of pain down her trembling arm. 

“You will regret your insolence, cur,” the Altmer woman snarled, giving her a sharp kick to the ribs. 

A groan wheezed past her lips as the Nord woman curled in on herself. The elf grasped a handful of Sigrun’s hair and jerked her head up to peer into her face. “Human filth,” she spat. “I look forward to the day your kind no longer plagues the face of Nirn.” 

The justiciar released her grip and took a step back, raising her sword. Sigrun rolled to the side, eyes landing on the discarded torch. The Altmer stumbled as her blade met with empty air. Taking advantage of the few precious moments it took the other woman to regain her balance, she snatched up the torch. In a move born of pure desperation, Sigrun hurled the resinous wood at the woman’s head, bits of ember and flaming pitch showering down around her as she did so. The justiciar screeched in rage, flinging an arm up to shield her face. The torch missed its intended target, sailing past the woman’s head and leaving her unscathed, but it gave the Nord the time she needed to recover her weapon. Sigrun pulled her feet under her in a crouch and lunged, burying the axe in the meat of her opponent’s calf. A shrill cry of pain poured from the Altmer’s lips as the color drained from her face. The Nord woman gave the axe a vicious twist and pulled it loose as she stood. She kicked at the injury, a cruel smirk twisting her lips as the justiciar sank to the ground. 

“Enjoy your meaningless victory,” the woman hissed, blood seeping from between her fingers as she clutched at her wound. “It is we who will be the victors in the end.” 

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Sigrun muttered as she lifted her axe. “Well, one of us will.” 

The Nord brought her weapon down in a glinting arc and it was over. She wiped her axe clean on the dead woman’s armor before returning it to her hip and surveyed the scene before her. A puzzled frown creased the Nord’s brow as she counted the bodies. _Three_. Only two had died by her hand, yet there lay the second mage, face down in the dirt and as dead as the others, an elven blade protruding from between his shoulder blades. She leaned over to examine the body, trying to understand. That certainly wasn’t _her_ work. Sigrun’s head snapped up at the sound of a feminine cough and she spun around, hand on the hilt of her axe. 

A young woman, little more than a girl, gave her a shy smile as she wrung her hands in apprehension. 

“I got that one,” she offered. Her voice carried an undercurrent of shame. “After you killed the first one, I took his dagger and cut my bonds loose. No one noticed in all the commotion and you seemed like you needed help…” 

She trailed off as Sigrun’s frown deepened. “Not that you couldn’t handle yourself,” she was quick to assure, eying the corpses. “I just… well, he didn’t see me behind him and it was the perfect opportunity, but then the blade got stuck and-” 

“I see,” Sigrun interrupted, eager to stop the girl’s babbling. “Well done. It was a good kill.” 

The younger woman’s eyes widened. “I stabbed him in the back. There’s no honor in that.” 

Sigrun snorted and managed to keep from rolling her eyes. “Oh? Did he surrender when I wasn’t looking?” 

At the girl’s uncertain shake of the head, she continued, “Then there was nothing dishonorable about it. Heed my advice: in a fight for your life, fight to win- you can be damned certain your opponent will. Honor is well and good, but if it means giving your enemy the advantage, you’ve crossed into stupidity.” 

The other woman’s lips pursed in thought as she seemed to consider Sigrun’s words. Her expression hardened and she gave a firm nod. 

“I understand.” 

“Good.” Sigrun retrieved one of the elven swords and offered it to the girl before waving a hand toward the bodies. “Now help me drag them off the road.” 

Young though she might be, the other woman worked with an ease that suggested she was no stranger to manual labor, and Sigrun was grateful for the assistance. Her ribs and back twinged in protest as she worked, but with her new companion’s help, the task was soon finished. The Nord healed herself and held out a hand towards the girl that still glowed with the golden radiance of restoration magic. 

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” she protested. “Not a scratch.” She turned in a circle as if to prove the validity of her statement. 

Sigrun shrugged and dismissed the spell, shouldering her satchel as she prepared to leave. She was surprised to find the other woman falling into step beside her. 

At her questioning look, the girl flushed. “I thought we might travel together,” she explained, looking embarrassed. “Just until the next town.” 

Sigrun did not answer right way, instead giving the young woman an appraising stare. She had the appearance of a Nord, tall and long-legged, with the fair skin common to the inhabitants of Skyrim. Her tangled hair was the nutty brown of fine ale and she had eyes the same shade of green as new grass. A smattering of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. For all the dirt and grime, she was rather pretty, Sigrun decided, but pretty wasn’t what she was looking for. 

The girl had already shown she could think on her feet by taking care of that Thalmor mage. She could have fled then, but didn’t; that in itself was commendable. Sigrun was even willing to admit the other woman might have saved her life, though if she had, it was a fair trade for her intervention in the first place. 

Praying she wasn’t making a decision she would come to regret, Sigrun gave the girl a slow nod. “Where are you headed?” 

The girl smiled, eyes alight. “Windhelm.” She held out a hand. “I’m Róta.” 

Sigrun hesitated only a moment before clasping the girl’s callused hand. “Sigrun.” 

******

Róta chattered more than Ralof, Sigrun soon found. It was not unpleasant, but for one used to traveling in silence, with only her own thoughts for company, the steady stream of questions could at times be distracting. She did not begrudge the girl’s presence, though. Her knowledge of the land served to fill in many of the gaps in Sigrun’s own memory, and further enlightened her on Skyrim’s current political upheaval. Róta’s eyes kept darting to the elder woman’s armor as she explained the events leading up to the civil war but, she didn’t comment on it. 

They reached a small farming village late in the morning and stopped to buy food. Sigrun suggested they try to trade the elven blade Róta had tucked in her belt for something less conspicuous, but the younger woman was reluctant to part with it. Sigrun let the matter go with a shrug. It was a fine sword, after all, if a bit fancy for her tastes. Still, the girl needed a blade, and if that was the one she wanted, Sigrun saw no harm in her keeping it. She did insist, however, that Róta don the set of armor she’d looted from the bandit archer. In addition to offering more protection, the armor would attract less attention than if the girl remained dressed as a beggar. Her own armor gave her some concern, but Róta assured her that they were still in neutral territory, so there should be little issue. Sigrun kept her doubts, but there wasn’t much she could do about it right then. 

As soon as their business was concluded, they left the village and walked for several more hours. They passed the odd traveler now and then, but aside from the occasional greeting, no one went out of their way to speak to them. Through some unspoken agreement, they traveled North in what Sigrun assumed was the direction of Windhelm. She wasn’t sure when she had done so, but somewhere along the way, she’d made the decision to accompany Róta at least that far. She still avoided thinking about what she might do after, though she knew it was not a subject she could avoid forever, especially with this Dragonborn business thrust upon her. 

When the sun began its slow descent below the horizon, Sigrun and Róta stopped for the night near a small freshwater pool. It was a pleasant change, having another around to help with the chores of setting up camp, and before long, bedrolls were laid out before a crackling fire while the women shared a loaf of barley bread and a wedge of hard cheese. 

Róta ate with enthusiasm, dusting the crumbs from her hands when she was through. 

“You said you were born in Skyrim? How long have you been back?,” she asked. 

Sigrun had to think a moment before answering. “A week and a half, perhaps? I’m not entirely certain, to be honest.” 

“What brought you home?” 

Sigrun snorted a laughed and shook her head as she reached for her waterskin. “I’m not sure that’s a story you want to hear.” 

“Of course I do!” The girl hesitated, a worried frown tugging at her lips. “Unless you don’t want to talk about it.” 

“The short version? I needed a place to go, and Skyrim was familiar.” Sigrun sighed. “I’m sorry, but it isn’t the sort of tale you tell around a campfire. What about you?” 

“Been here my whole life,” Róta said proudly. “My parents were farmers. When they died, my brother and I took over the farm.” A shadow crossed her face at the mention of her brother. “But I guess it’s just me now.” 

“What did the Thalmor want with a farmer?” Sigrun asked, unable to contain her curiosity. 

Róta didn’t answer for several long moments, instead staring into the fire and tapping her fingers against her leg in a nervous rhythm. Sigrun opened her mouth to utter some form of apology, but the girl spoke first. 

“I- I was on my way to Windhelm,” she explained. “To join the Stormcloaks. The Thalmor were on patrol and stopped me, started asking all kinds of questions. They searched my things and found a dagger that had the hammer of Talos carved into the hilt. It wasn’t even mine - it belonged to my brother - but I guess that was all they needed to brand me a heretic.” 

The woman sighed and brushed back a tangle of hair that had fallen into her eyes. “I expected them to kill me right there, but they didn’t. Said something about taking me back to the embassy for questioning. I don’t know what they thought _I_ could tell them.” 

“Whatever they wanted you to tell them… and then some,” Sigrun replied in a flat tone. 

“But what could they want? Like you said, I’m just a farmer.” 

“Evidence, most likely. The names of family, friends, neighbors - anyone they could claim broke the terms of their precious treaty,” Sigrun scoffed. 

Róta gasped, her face a mix of horror and indignation. “I would never turn on-” 

“You would,” Sigrun interrupted. “It might take days, or even weeks, but you would.” 

The girl shook her head in denial, green eyes wide and glimmering with unshed tears. “No, I wouldn’t! I would never put someone else in danger to save myself,” she cried in a tremulous voice. “And how would you know, anyway?” 

“Because I would have handed over my own mother by the time they were through with me!” 

The words spilled from Sigrun’s lips before she could stop them. With an audible click, she snapped her mouth shut and turned towards the fire, the muscles in her jaw clenching in anger. She wasn’t angry at Róta, not really, but the girl’s naive insistence that _she_ was different, that _she_ might somehow prove stronger than Sigrun herself had been, was like pouring salt into a wound still raw and bleeding. Feelings of guilt and shame she’d thought long buried broke free, rushing forth with the force of flood water escaping a breached dam, and threatening to pull her under. 

A heavy silence descended on the camp, broken only by her ragged breaths and the occasional sniffle from Róta. Sigrun curled her hands into fists until her nails bit bloody crescents into her palms. Though it ran so deep she doubted it would ever fully heal, too much time had been spent tending this particular wound to let an innocent comment tear it open anew. 

Whether from bravado or a sincere belief that they could endure, many underestimated how persuasive the Thalmor could be. Sigrun had fallen into that same trap when she’d first been taken; she could not fault Róta for that. But what most didn’t realize was that the Thalmor did not rely on pain alone to break their subjects. Illusion magic was also a favorite, and sometimes far more effective, tool employed by the justiciars. 

Sigrun had come to dread the torture, but worse, was never knowing whose face she might see. Sometimes it would be her long-dead mother, offering soothing words and gentle urgings to cease her stubbornness. Later, it would be Marcus, the handsome youth she’d flirted with back in Chorrol, whose shy smile was as gentle and sweet as she remembered. Then the tables would turn, and it would be her mother demanding answers as sparks danced between her fingertips, and Marcus’ smile would grow cold and cruel as he held heated blades to her tender skin. 

Suffering at the hands of the people she loved left scars more livid than any whips or chains ever could, and after a time, Sigrun found she could no longer trust her warped perception of reality. Why protect those that betrayed her and continue to defy the people that gave relief from the constant pain? Why cling to a god who cared nothing for her sacrifice in his name? 

With great effort, Sigrun banished the memories to the dark corners of her mind where they belonged. They were all lies, she knew that now, and the Thalmor had taken enough of her life. Every moment she spent dwelling on the past was another moment she gave them, another mark awarded in an endless tally only she kept track of. She would not allow the scales to tip further in their favor. 

******

Breaking camp the next morning was a quiet, strained affair, and Sigrun found she missed Róta’s bright smile and incessant chatter. The girl had more cheer than sense, but possessed an innocence that was oddly endearing, and the perfect counterpoint to the elder woman’s dark brooding. 

Sigrun kicked dirt over the smoldering embers of their fire and turned to grab her pack when Róta approached with timid steps. The girl clasped and unclasped her hands as she worked up the courage to speak. After some hesitation, she licked her lips and drew a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” she began, her voice little more than a whisper. “I didn’t know about…” 

One shoulder rose and fell in a careless shrug as Sigrun gave the girl a tight smile. “You couldn’t have. It’s done,” she added, her tone coming out harsher than she intended. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Róta nodded and returned to her work, lips still set in a frown. It was obvious from her slumped posture and downcast eyes that something still bothered her but Sigrun couldn’t fathom what that might be. There were no lingering hard feelings from the night before; the whole incident was best left behind them. Hadn’t she made that clear? 

With one last look around the camp to make sure they had everything, Sigrun hefted her pack to her shoulder and started forward. It took a moment for her to notice that Róta was not following her. 

“Aren’t you ready?” she asked, inpatient. 

Amber eyes swept over the girl, searching for a reason behind the delay. Róta just stood there, cinnamon brows furrowed in confusion. 

“You still want me along?” she asked, a flicker of hope flaring to life in the deep green of her eyes. 

_What in all the names of The Nine is she talking about?_

Sigrun’s face must have matched her thoughts because the girl hastened to explain, “Well, after last night I thought you might prefer to travel alone. You did seem rather angry and you weren’t really speaking to me after that, so I just assumed….” 

“Get over here,” Sigrun sighed in exasperation. 

The smile that spread over Róta’s face was like the sun slipping from behind the clouds, and the elder woman’s lips twitched with the urge to respond in kind. 

Back on the road, Róta was her chatty self again and the previous conflict faded away as if it had never happened. Sigrun made an honest attempt to participate in the conversation, telling her companion a bit about her childhood before she left Skyrim. It was all rather mundane, she thought, nothing compared to the recent events in her life, but the girl’s interest was genuine, so Sigrun did her best to oblige. If nothing else, it eased the monotony of travel. 

“I wanted to ask you something,” Róta began, small white teeth chewing her bottom lip as she cast a doubtful look at the other woman. 

Amused by her hesitation, Sigrun gave the girl a lopsided grin. “You’ve asked me several questions already. I haven’t stopped you yet.” 

Róta smiled at that. “I guess I have,” she agreed. “I was wondering, though, that… thing you did, when you knocked down that elf… what was that? Some kind of magic?” 

“In a sense,” Sigrun answered, wary of where this line of questioning might lead. “It was a Shout.” 

“You can Shout?” Róta’s eyes widened to comical proportions. “Did you study with the Graybeards? Are there really seven thousand steps leading to the the Throat of the World?” 

“I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been there and I have never met the Graybeards.” 

There was disappointment in those green eyes now, and Sigrun had the absurd urge to apologize. 

“If they didn’t teach you to Shout, who did?” 

Sigrun sighed in resignation. “No one.” 

Róta’s jaw dropped. “But that makes you-” 

“Yes, it does.” Sigrun’s mouth hardened into a bitter line. “Apparently the gods have a sense of humor.” 

The girl opened her mouth to speak and then shut it, pursing her lips instead. She was quiet for several minutes and Sigrun welcomed the silence. She’d grown fond of Róta over the last couple of days, but her patience was not unlimited. 

“You could speak to Jarl Ulfric.” The suggestion was timid, as if she expected it to be outright rejected. “They say he can Shout, and he lived with the Graybeards for years.” 

Sigrun had to admit, the idea had merit. Ulfric Stormcloak was the only other person she knew of, aside from the Graybeards, that could use the Thu’um. Whether he would help her or not remained to be seen, but she would be in Windelhm anyway; there was nothing to lose by trying. 

“That’s a good idea, Róta” she praised, a genuine smile curving her lips. “I think I will.” 

Róta beamed at the compliment. “Maybe we can join the Stormcloaks together.” 

“One thing at a time. 

******

Windhelm was a bleak, cold place, as gray and cragged as the mountains that sheltered it. Snow fell in thick white flakes from a dull lead sky, clinging to Sigrun’s hair and and lashes, and lending her dark locks a hoary appearance. The wind bit like stinging insects as it swept down from jagged peaks, grasping at clothing with icy fingers. 

The women were allowed free entry into the city, a fact that surprised Sigrun until she remembered her current attire. She would need to remedy that before seeking audience with the jarl, she decided. It wouldn’t do to ask his aid while wearing armor she’d scavenged from one of his fallen men. Thanks to her trip through the barrow, she was not entirely destitute; in a city this large, she should have no trouble finding something to replace it. 

As they browsed the stalls in the market, Sigrun kept an ear out for any interesting information she might be able to glean from the chatting townsfolk. Gossip confirmed that Ulfric had indeed returned to his city, though the woman had never once entertained the idea that he had not. News of that magnitude would sweep through Skyrim like plague; they would have heard rumors, at the very least, long before reaching Eastmarch. 

A small gasp of excitement drew Sigrun’s attention to Róta. She followed the girl’s longing gaze to a gown of forest green on display in an Altmer woman’s stall. 

“It’s beautiful,” Róta breathed, turning eager eyes on Sigrun. 

“I suppose it is,” Sigrun replied with a shrug. 

The dress _was_ pretty, if one fancied such things, with a velvet bodice so deep a green it was almost black, a gold accented collar, and a full skirt and sleeves trimmed in white fur. Sigrun doubted she would find the price as attractive as the garment and set about convincing the girl just how impractical such a purchase would be. 

“You came here to join Ulfric’s army, Róta,” she reminded as she searched for patience. “You don’t need pretty gowns.” 

“Oh, you’re right, of course,” the girl sighed in disappointment. “Still, it’s a lovely dress.” 

“I think you’d best get used to blue,” Sigrun chided, though she made every effort to keep her voice gentle. 

Throughout their travels, the elder woman had the recurring suspicion that Róta, for all her help with the Thalmor mage, didn’t know the first thing about combat. Their journey to Windhelm had been uneventful- boring even- so she had not yet had the chance to see the girl’s skill for herself, but if she had to hazard a guess, Sigrun was willing to wager that the business with the mage was the first taste of battle the young woman had ever experienced. 

A troubled frown turned Sigrun’s lips. If that was the case, why was the girl so eager to be a soldier? She was naive, certainly, but not once had she given the impression of being simple. She’d speak with Róta, she decided, and find out why the girl had her heart set on becoming a Stormcloak. It might be crossing a line; she was young, but Róta was no child, and was free to do as she wished. Still, Sigrun would take that risk. She had not brought her all the way out here so that the girl could be run through by the first Imperial that saw her. 

Sigrun saw her opportunity later that day and seized it. Their shopping complete, the women sought found food and lodging at Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm’s most popular inn. As Róta blew on a bite of her stew to cool it, Sigrun took advantage of the break in their conversation to change the subject. 

“Why do you want to join the Stormcloaks?” she asked, arranging her features into an expression of innocent curiosity. 

Green eyes darkened in pain before Róta looked down at her bowl. She played with her spoon a bit before answering, stirring the thick stew in idle circles. 

“I have to,” she said at last, refusing to meet Sigrun’s gaze. “You probably wouldn’t understand.” 

“Try me,” Sigrun pressed. “I understand a lot more than think. 

Róta sighed, but nodded in acquiescence. 

“My brother, Ynvar, was a Stormcloak,” she began, tearing a chunk of bread into tiny pieces as she spoke in halting sentences. “A scout. 

“When our parents died, he was the only thing that kept me from being thrown in Honorhall. My brother was all I had left, and he took care of me. It wasn’t so bad, for a while. I tended the crops and Ynvar hunted and took small jobs when he could. We always had enough food and coin to get by. 

“But then, word got around that Jarl Ulfric killed the High King. People started talking about an independent Skyrim, free from the Empire. They said we could have Talos back, that we could be Nords again, so Ynvar left. 

“I cried when he told me, begged him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen. We…quarreled, I guess. I called him selfish and he said I didn’t understand. He insisted that he had to fight, for me, so that I could pray to whomever I pleased without some elf dragging me away in the night for it. 

“Nothing I said would sway him. I even promised not to pray to Talos anymore- I needed him more than I needed some god that only watches as his people die for him- and he just looked at me with sad eyes. He kissed my cheek and said that was exactly why he needed to go.” 

The girl took a shaky breath and wiped at a tear trailing down her cheek. She brushed at the bread, now a mess of crumbs, and pushed her half-finished bowl away from her. 

“He died, about a month back,” she continued in a soft voice. “Killed by an Imperial sword. There were no goodbyes, only a letter and his dagger, brought by courier.” 

Róta turned earnest eyes on Sigrun, pleading with the other woman to understand. 

“The cause was important to Ynvar. He died for it! I have to finish what he started or his death means nothing. 

Sigrun was quiet for a moment as she let it all sink in. She did understand, she realized; better than she had expected to. There would be no dissuading the girl, then. 

“How many men have you killed?” she asked in a quiet voice. 

Róta swallowed hard. “Only the elf,” she whispered. “I still- I still see him, sometimes. “Will that ever go away?” 

“No.” 

The answer was blunt, harsh even, but Sigrun would not lie to the girl. If war was the path Róta chose, she needed cold facts, not fancy tales spun of glory and honor. 

“Róta, are you absolutely certain this is what you want?” 

Her face a grim mask, the girl gave Sigrun a firm nod. 

“Alright, then,” Sigrun sighed. “I suppose we’ll go talk to the jarl.” 

Dressed in a new long-sleeved tunic and soft leather breeches, the snarls brushed from her hair, Sigrun led Róta through the maze of gray stone that served as the city’s streets. When they stood before the Palace of Kings, she gave the girl a reassuring smile and pushed open the heavy double doors. 

A great hall stretched out before them, its walls comprised of the same dark stone as the rest of the city, and adorned in banners of Stormcloak blue. Torches flickered in their sconces, bathing the large chamber in warm light and softening the deep shadows that gathered in its corners. A massive banquet table, laden with more food than Sigrun had ever seen, took up the center of the hall, and beyond that, she could make out a stonework throne, flanked by two grated braziers. Seated on the throne was Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, deep in a heated discussion with another, more grizzled man that very much resembled the bear pelt he was cloaked in. 

Taking a deep breath, Sigrun strode forward, amber eyes fixed on the jarl. The sooner she could get this over with, the better. Her presence did not go undetected. A man with a thick mustache and a fur-lined cap saw her approach and bent his head to whisper something to Ulfric that her ears could not discern. The jarl looked up at that, and Sigrun saw his gaze settle on her. He regarded her with a placid countenance, but his eyes were shrewd. 

“Only the foolish or courageous approach a jarl without summons,” Ulfric remarked, sitting back on his throne. “Which might you be?” 

“A bit of both, I expect,” Sigrun answered, ignoring Róta’s squeak of dismay. 

One corner of the man’s mouth twitched beneath his beard and the lines in his forehead deepened as he studied her. 

“Do I know you?” 

Sigrun nodded, resisting the urge to look away. “We’ve met, briefly. I should probably apologize for bleeding on your coat.” 

Hazel eyes widened the slightest fraction in sudden recognition. 

“Ah, yes. I remember you. So, you made it out of Helgen after all.” 

Something about Ulfric’s tone rankled her pride, and Sigrun fought to keep her voice neutral as she asked, “Does this surprise you, my jarl?” 

Ulfric gave a slight shake of his head. “Not at all. I saw what happened to the last man who underestimated you. But skill alone does not make a warrior, and many fine warriors died that day. A dragon is no trifling matter.” 

“They die as any beast dies.” 

“They? There are more?” 

“Yes,” Sigrun confirmed. “I helped slay one outside of Whiterun. It was not the dragon from Helgen. I’m sure of it.” 

The jarl breathed a tired sigh and rubbed at his beard, eyes going distant. 

“After the Graybeards’ summons, I feared as much. The gods only send a Dragonborn in times of great need.” 

“That’s actually why I’m here,” Sigrun said in a quiet voice as she picked at a loose thread on her tunic. “The Graybeards were summoning me.” 

Ulfric’s eyes narrowed at her admission, his stare boring into her. 

“You.” 

“Yes, me,” Sigrun snapped, patience gone. “If you’ve an objection to that, take it up with Akatosh. It certainly wasn’t my idea.” 

Ulfric laughed at that, the sound low and rich. 

“A fair point,” the jarl conceded. 

The man in the bearskin grunted and crossed his arms across his broad chest, pinning Sigrun with an icy glare. He’d remained silent so far, and the woman had nearly forgotten he was there at all. 

“Don’t tell me you actually believe this girl, Ulfric!” 

“And why should I not? You heard the summons, Galmar. That a Dragonborn walks among us cannot be disputed.” 

“But _her_?” Galmar scoffed, flicking a hand in Sigrun’s direction. “The Dragonborn of legend have always been Nords. Her eyes mark her as elf-blooded. She could be a Thalmor spy!” 

Fury raced through her veins like fire at the accusation. She could understand his doubt at her claim- she could scarcely believe it herself- but to accuse her of being a willing accomplice of the elves was too much. She clenched her hands to still their shaking and turned a venomous glare on the man. 

“I am a Nord,” Sigrun hissed, low and dangerous. “Like my mother before me. She had as much choice in who sired me as I did. Doubt my claim, if you must, but do not doubt my hatred for the Dominion!” 

“Enough, both of you,” Ulfric commanded. “You’ve explained why you’re here, but what of her?” he asked, waving a hand at Róta. 

The girl in question had the terrified face of a mouse who just realized it had wandered into a room full of hungry cats. She shuffled forward and dipped into a clumsy bow. 

“My jarl,” she said in a shaking voice. “My name is Róta Grimarsdóttir. I’m here because I want to join the fight for Skyrim. I would proudly serve under your banner, if you’ll have me.” 

Ulfric rested his chin on his fist as he considered. Sigrun thought she saw doubt flicker across his features, but it was gone before she could be sure. 

“Speak with Galmar. He’ll decide if you join our ranks. Come with me, Dragonborn. I have something you might find interesting.” 

Puzzled, Sigrun nodded. 

“I’ll be back shortly,” she promised Róta, and followed Ulfric from the hall. 

The jarl led her up a set of stairs and past several rooms before he paused at the foot of another staircase. 

“Wait here.” 

When he returned, he held out a small object for her to take and said, “I believe this is yours.” 

Sigrun gasped as she recognized her amulet, blinking back a sudden rush of tears. The smooth wood was charred in places, the leather cord gone, but it was her amulet. She ran a thumb along the hammer’s curved edge and let out a tremulous breath. 

“I thought this was lost to me,” she whispered. “How did you find it?” 

“You dropped it when the dragon attacked and separated us. I thought to return it to you then, but you were already gone.” 

“I cannot thank you enough for this,” she murmured past the lump in her throat. “Truly, there is no way I can ever repay you.” 

“Your name will suffice.” 

“My name is Sigrun.” 

“And what did you hope to gain by speaking with me, Sigrun?” 

The sound of her name from his lips sent warmth spreading through her, and she had to suppress a shiver. 

“I-I’m not sure. I didn’t even know I was Dragonborn until a few days ago; I’m not entirely certain what that even means. I know what the legends say, of course, but I have no idea what this means for me. What am I supposed to do? You are the only one I know of who can use the Thu’um. Perhaps it was a foolish thought, but…” 

Sigrun’s voice faded into silence. It had only now occurred to her how silly this idea was. She didn’t even know this man, and yet she had come to him searching for direction? He had his own concerns. If his silence was any indication, he was having similar thoughts. 

“The gods have some purpose for you, that much is clear,” Ulfric said at last. “I am not the one to tell you what that purpose is, however. What I know of the Thu’um took years of training. I imagine it was not the same for you.” 

Sigrun shook her head. What little knowledge she had gained took no effort at all. She’d simply taken it in along with the dragon’s soul. 

“Go to High Hrothgar and speak with the Graybeards. They can guide you, and help you develop your Voice. To be called by them is an honor few will ever know.” 

“As you say,” Sigrun sighed. 

“Come then, your friend is likely waiting for you.” 

******

Sigrun entered the hall to find Róta red-faced and sniffling. Galmar was nowhere to be seen. 

“What is it?” she asked the girl, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. “What happened?” 

Róta turned bloodshot eyes on Sigrun and whispered, “He said no. Told me there was no time for hand-holding in war and that I would only get myself killed.” 

_Galmar has more sense than I gave him credit for._

Sigrun wet her lips, ready to explain to the Róta just why she was not cut out for war, but the words died in her throat as she saw the expression on the girl’s tear-stained face. She knew the look of absolute failure, and the miserable guilt that came along with it. 

“Let me see what I can do,” she sighed. 

Sigrun went back to the side room where Ulfric and Galmar were leaning over a map, discussing strategy. 

“What is it now?” Galmar snapped as she entered. 

“Róta said you refused her.” 

“And so I did,” the man stated in a gruff voice. “She can barely hold a blade. We need men and women that can fight. She’ll be nothing but a liability.” 

“She’s green, I’ll admit, but she wants this badly. Don’t discount her so easily. The dedication is already there. The skill will come with time.” 

“We don’t have time,” Ulfric said, his voice not unkind. 

“Surely you need more than warriors,” Sigrun protested, trying to contain her rising frustration. 

“Does she possess some skill I’m not aware of?” Galmar challenged. “Infiltration perhaps? Can she decipher coded documents?” 

“No,” Sigrun admitted. “But what about healers?” 

“We can always use more battle maidens,” Ulfric allowed. “It would be an acceptable compromise. Does she have a talent for the healing arts?” 

“No, but I do. I’ll train her.” Sigrun blurted. 

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, but she was growing desperate. She would not leave this room until Róta had her wish. 

Ulfric sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but Galmar is right. She’ll only get herself killed.” 

“A trial, then. Give me a month with her after my business with the Graybeards is finished. If you decide she is still unfit, I’ll take her place. You lose nothing.” 

Galmar opened his mouth to protest but Ulfric held up a hand and he fell quiet, growling beneath his breath. The jarl held her eyes for a long time before dipping his head in a single nod. 

“One month,” he agreed. “Beginning upon your return from High Hrothgar.” 

“You have my word,” Sigrun promised. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick edit: I have a picture of Rota, if anyone is curious,
> 
> http://skyrimforums.org/sf/useralbums/31711/standalone


	5. Lessons Learned

The path to High Hrothgar wrapped around the mountain like a great coiled serpent, poised and ready to strike at the unwary traveler. The stone steps cut into the rock were cracked and battered, worn down by centuries of exposure to the harsh elements, and all the more perilous for the layer of snow and ice that covered them. It was a true testament of faith for the pilgrims willing to risk the climb, and Sigrun was grateful that Róta had remained in the village below.

  
  


The girl had at first rejected the idea, insisting that she would also make the trip, with or without the elder woman’s blessing. It had taken every scrap of patience Sigrun possessed, and more than a bit of bribery, to talk the stubborn girl into an arrangement both parties could live with, but in the end, she got her way and Róta agreed to stay in Ivarstead and study the simple healing spell she’d given her. 

  
  


Sigrun paused at yet another wayshrine, not only to read the inscription, but to take a few minutes of rest. She set down the heavy sack of supplies she was carrying, almost regretting her offer to deliver them for Klimmek. The man usually brought them himself, but was unable to do so this time around because the path had become too dangerous. It seemed a simple matter to take them in his place; she was going there anyway. What she hadn’t realized was that the higher she climbed, the colder and thinner the air became, and what would have amounted to moderate exertion at a lower altitude left her drained and gasping.

  
  


A shiver ran through her as she peered out over the jagged precipice, and not just from the frigid wind or stinging snow. The trail narrowed here, forcing her to hug the edge of the mountain in order to continue. One lapse of judgment, one slip of her foot from the icy rock, and she would fall into the mist-shrouded depths below. The woman clenched her jaw and fixed her eyes on the winding trail, fighting the urge to let her anxious gaze slide to the open air not an arm’s length away. She hadn’t survived all that she had just to be defeated by a mountain. Talos had once trod this very path. She would treat the opportunity to follow in his footsteps as the honor it was. 

  
  


Step by dogged step, Sigrun picked her way around the mountain, letting out a heavy breath of relief when the trail once more widened and allowed a normal pace. She was under no illusion that this marked the end of the her trials, but at least she had one less threat to worry about.

  
  


Hours passed, marked only by the ever-changing position of the sun. Sigrun hunched beneath her thick cloak as the furious wind whipped her hair about, trying to shake some feeling back into her numb fingers. She rounded another bend and slowed as her eyes came to rest on another of the shrines. This one was different from the others. The familiar likeness of Talos rose above the alcove, and as the woman drew closer, she saw that the figure appeared to be one solid piece, carved from the mountain itself. She reached a hand toward the statue and ran hesitant fingers along the serpent depicted at the base.

  
  


It was a beautiful piece, sculpted with such exquisite craftsmanship that not even time or the wretched weather conditions had been able to eradicate the details entirely. For a single instant, Sigrun wished she could have seen it in all its original splendor, every line etched clean and crisp. It was the closest she might ever come to looking upon the face of her god, and a sharp longing rose up within her, almost painful in its intensity. 

  
  


Sigrun snatched her hand back and the moment vanished like fog in the sunlight. All that seemed a lifetime ago; all that _was_ another life _._ Dropping her eyes, the woman turned away from the statue and hurried up the path. Perhaps one day, when she’d proved herself worthy, she’d return. Until then, her time was better spent concentrating on what was in front of her. Dwelling in the past served no one, least of all her. 

  
  


Now that her attention was no longer riveted on the statue, Sigrun saw that the great monastery was now in view, mere minutes away, and her thoughts turned to what might happen once she was inside. Would the reclusive Graybeards speak to her? Would she even be allowed entry? Anxiety fluttered in her stomach like the wings of a trapped bird. What if they, too, questioned her worthiness?

  
  


For good or ill, she’d find out soon enough, Sigrun decided. Not allowing herself a second’s hesitation, the woman pushed open the ornate double doors and stepped inside. Having grown used to the intense glare outside, she found that she was nearly blind in the dim lighting of the monastery’s interior. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the new conditions. When she could see again, Sigrun became aware of a man dressed in a gray robe, its design reminiscent of dragon scales, walking towards her. He stopped a respectful distance away and studied her face from beneath his cowl. 

  
  


Sigrun, unsure of what greeting might be expected of her, managed a clumsy bow. 

  
  


“I heard your summons,” she said as she straightened. “And I am here.”

  
  


The man’s wizened face showed no change in expression at her words; not a single twitch or the barest flicker of emotion hinted at what might be going on behind those eyes. He remained silent for an indeterminable amount of time, and Sigrun fought to remain still under that measuring gaze. She was being judged, she knew, but there was no outward indication on what the verdict might be.

  
  


“So you are,” the man said at last with a shallow dip of his head. “We shall see, then, if you truly have the gift.”

  
  


Three other men, similar in age and dress, stepped forward behind him. 

  
  


“Show us,” the first commanded. “Let us taste of your voice.”

  
  


Annoyance prickled through her at the order. Was there truly cause to doubt her? Who else might be insane enough to brave the Seven Thousand Steps and make such a preposterous declaration? Not even Klimmek dared enter the monastery when he left his provisions. She had anticipated some form of test or trial, but after Ulfric’s easy acceptance of her word, it had never occurred to her that the Graybeards would require proof of her claim.

  
  


Sigrun hesitated a moment, but when the men remained where they were, she gave a mental shrug and reached for the power that seemed both foreign and as familiar as her own reflection. 

  
  


“ _FUS!”_

  
  


The Graybeards staggered back as though she’d given them all a shove and at once bowed to her. 

  
  


“It is you. Welcome, Dragonborn, to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir. These are Masters Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar.”

  
  


Arngeir pointed to each respective man as he introduced them. Sigrun nodded to them in turn, but remained silent, fearful of causing some offense.

  
  


Introductions out of the way, Arngeir gestured for her to follow him as he led her further into the monastery. 

  
  


“Tell me, Dragonborn, what is it you seek here?” He asked as they entered the main hall.

  
  


“You- you summoned me,” Sigrun stammered in confusion. 

  
  


“Ah, but it was you who chose to answer our call. Your reason for doing so is what I question.”

  
  


Sigrun bit off the retort she was tempted to fling his way and pursed her lips as she considered. It was a fair question, and the answer deserved at least a modicum of thought. She was not in the habit of following orders out of blind obedience, so why _had_ she come? 

  
  


“Answers,” the woman said at last. “Training, if you will allow it.”

  
  


“It is our privilege to guide you as you master your Voice,” Arngeir assured. “But we cannot walk your path for you. That is up to you, Dragonborn.”

  
  


“But what is my path?” Sigrun cried, exasperation creeping into her voice. 

  
  


“Answers will come in time. When you are ready, all will become clear. Until then, focus on growing your voice.”

  
  


Arngeir’s reply did little to calm Sigrun’s mounting frustration. Since she made the decision to return to Skyrim, her life had been spiraling out of her control, leaving her feeling like little more than a piece of driftwood caught up in a current she could not escape. Thus far, she’d managed to keep her head above water, but how much longer could she fight the tide before it dragged her under? The Graybeards were supposed to provide answers, not cryptic riddles! Though she hated the idea of playing along, Sigrun saw no other choice. They were her only chance at figuring any of this out before the black dragon caught up with her. For now, Arngeir set the rules. 

  
  


“Very well,” sighed the woman. “What would you have of me?”

  


***************

  


“ _Fus-Ro_!”

  
  


The shimmering figure she was practicing her Shout on winked out like an extinguished torch, but a low brazier sitting on the ground toppled over and rolled on its side with a loud clang, spilling ash and embers across the stone floor. Sigrun’s lips thinned into a hard line, a muscle in her jaw twitched in irritation. Hitting the target was simple enough, but constraining the raw power in her Voice to only the target was a much greater challenge - one she had yet to succeed in.

  
  


“Again. Concentrate on the target,” Arngeir ordered.

  
  


Another spectral form appeared, courtesy of Master Borri, and Sigrun again unleashed her Thu’um upon it. Again, the poor brazier was swept along in the force of her Shout, and the woman watched in embarrassment as it ricocheted off a wall and spun around a few times before coming to a noisy stop. 

  
  


Throwing up her hands, Sigrun shook her head in disgust.

  
  


“I don’t understand,” she ground out from between clenched teeth. I’ve been at this every morning, -for days, now- and it is always the same!”

  
  


“That’s enough for today,” Arngeir called.

  
  


The other three monks nodded at the dismissal and filed out of the hall in silence. Arngeir remained behind, the woman noted with annoyance. 

  
  


_Probably preparing to launch into a sermon about how I lack control, as if it isn’t obvious to all and sundry by now!_

  
  


Since her arrival, Sigrun’s relationship with the spokesman of the Graybeards had been less than cordial . He was quick to point out and reprimand her failings, but beyond vague suggestions of reflection and focus, offered little in the way of guidance to help her improve. More than once, she’d been ready to leave the monastery and never look back; only her need for answers kept her from doing so.

  
  


With a resigned sigh, the Nord woman crossed her arms over her chest and waited for the lecture she was sure was coming. Arngeir did not disappoint.

  
  


“You require further meditation on the word _Ro_ ,” he admonished. “Because of your Dragon Blood, the ability to use your Thu’um comes easily enough, but true mastery requires more than that. Power must be tempered with discipline and restraint.”

  
  


“It’s not as if I’m not trying,” Sigrun argued. “You want me to meditate? I’m not even sure how.”

  
  


“To know a Word, you must first understand it. You must take it into your very being. Master Einarth has given you his understanding of _Ro_ , but it is up to you to apply it. There must be harmony between your inner spirit and outward actions. You cannot achieve this balance while hatred and anger fester within.”

  
  


Despite his mild tone, his words carried the same sting as a slap to the face. Sigrun looked at him through narrowed eyes. 

  
  


“Is there a Shout that allows you to see another’s thoughts?” she quipped, only half in jest. 

  
  


“No,” Arngeir replied, voice sharp. “Your thoughts remain yours. It is the discord in your Voice that gives you away.”

  
  


Sigrun snorted, but held her tongue. It was convenient to toss around judgment when one lived away from it all. Let him step one foot off his mountain, let him witness what the world really had to offer, and then see what _harmony_ remained. 

  
  


Something in his face changed as he held her gaze, softening the lines that bit into his eyes and mouth. The stern teacher was gone, and all that remained in his wake was a man who wanted nothing more than to impart the wisdom his years had granted him. 

  
  


“You are stubborn, child,” Arngeir sighed. “Walk with me, if you will.” 

  
  


The monk was silent as he led her through the compound and out to a courtyard that overlooked all of Skyrim. The wind was fierce here, howling around them in a flurry of snow. The courtyard itself, however, was oddly still, as if they stood in the eye of a raging storm. 

  
  


“When troubled or in doubt, I often seek the courtyard,” Arngeir remarked as he looked out over the thick layer of clouds. “There is solace, in Kynareth’s embrace, and I find it serves as a remarkable example to what we strive for in The Way of the Voice. Peace can always be found amidst the chaos, if one is willing to look inward, beyond the tempest.”

  
  


Out of the corner of her eye, Sigrun saw him turn to look at her. 

  
  


“No doubt you think my words the mere ramblings of an old man, shut away atop his mountain.”

  
  


“There is a Shout, isn’t there?” she muttered, though her words lacked the bitterness of earlier. 

  
  


Arngeir huffed what might have been a laugh. 

  
  


“No, as I already told you. I cannot see your thoughts, but then, I hardly need to. You are not the first recalcitrant pupil I’ve had under my tutelage. There was another, much like you. He was gifted, but willful, and often governed by emotion.” 

  
  


“Ulfric Stormcloak.”

  
  


“Yes,” the old monk agreed. “He was my student for many years… and the son I will never have, though I doubt he knew it. Had he stayed, he would have become one of us.”

  
  


“Ulfric was to become a Graybeard?” Sigrun asked, incredulous. “Why did he leave?”

  
  


“War came, as it always does, and he could not remain passive in the conflict. He abandoned the path of peace to become a man of violence.”

  
  


“Or perhaps he only abandoned complacency.”

  
  


“I’m certain that he views his actions in a similar light. I did not tell you this to spark a philosophical debate, however. Though I cannot overlook his misuse of the Thu’um, I must accept my own failings in teaching him. He was a mere boy when he was brought here, and I was harsher at times than necessary. We give up much for our way of life, and I thought it best he learn that from the beginning. I thought coddling him would only make adjusting to his new circumstances more difficult. Only in hindsight did I realize that I was as unyielding as he. Had I shown the same patience and attention I expected from him, many of our quarrels might have been avoided.

  
  


“Wisdom cannot thrive where passion rules. I failed to teach Ulfric this because I was blind to my own struggle. It is my hope that you will benefit from what I have learned with him.”

  
  


“I don’t follow your philosophy,” Sigrun pointed out. “And I doubt I ever will. Why agree to train me?”

  
  


“As Dragonborn, you are not bound by the same stipulations other mortals must adhere to. Your Gift comes directly from Akatosh. It is not our place to judge how you might use it, though I must warn you that arrogance and the lust for power have been the downfall of many before you.” 

  
  


Sigrun said nothing to that, certain any response she gave was just going to lead to another lecture. Power was a means to an end, nothing more. She had no intention of letting herself fall under its corrupting influence, but she refused to go into seclusion for the rest of her life in the hopes of avoiding it. Hiding from temptation was not the same as overcoming it, and squandering such a gift seemed as offensive as abusing it. Kyne was a warrior goddess, something the Graybeards had conveniently forgotten. While she respected the monks’ dedication to their way of life, Sigrun harbored doubts that the Widow of Shor would forbid the use of the Thu’um in war.

  
  


Despite their differing views, her cooling temper allowed her to see that much of what Arngeir said made sense. After several days of mounting tension, an extended olive branch was unexpected, but no less welcome for it. She might never agree with Arngeir, but that did not mean they could not develop a mutual respect for one another. 

  
  


“I will think on what you have said,” Sigrun promised. “I cannot make guarantees, but I will do my utmost to approach my lessons with a clear mind.”

  
  


“That is all I ask, Dragonborn. Go and rest. We will resume your training tomorrow.”

  
  


Later that night, alone in her cell, Sigrun found she could not quiet her restless thoughts long enough to slip into slumber. In her mind, she replayed her conversation with Arngeir, recalling what he said about finding calm amidst the chaos. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to visualize the courtyard as she had seen it earlier that day, a haven in the surrounding storm, serene and untouched by the violent winds that roared across the top of the mountain. She imagined her most inner self to be like that courtyard. She could never separate herself entirely from the events of her past, but with enough effort, she could push them aside. In this small corner of her mind, she discovered a measure of peace. 

  
  


Sleep crept over her with all the stealth of a thief in the night, and for the first time in several years, her rest was undisturbed by her dreams. 

  


**********

  


Since she and Arngeir had spoken in the courtyard, Sigrun’s training progressed with far less turbulence than it had in the rocky first days of her arrival. She still struggled with the precision of her Thu’um, and at times, she still chafed at Arngeir’s blunt criticism, but there was an understanding between student and mentor that had been lacking prior to their talk. She did not think she imagined the pride in the old monk’s eyes the first time she managed to restrict the force of her Shout to a single target, even if his only response had been to tell her to do it again. After she was able to repeat this task with consistency, Arngeir allowed her to move on to smaller and smaller targets. 

  
  


One day bled into the next. Each morning Sigrun would rise, break her fast with simple fare, and report to the main hall. There, she would spend the next several hours Shouting until her throat was raw. When her progress was deemed satisfactory, she was excused for meditation until the evening meal, and after that, whatever remained of the evening was hers. Sigrun devoted these precious few hours to learning what she could of _Dovahzul_ , the dragon tongue. Arngeir approved, though he had warned her that without proper knowledge of how to unlock the power of the words she was learning, they would remain just that, the same as any other language. 

  
  


It didn’t matter to her. Something in the dragons’ ancient tongue called to her, and she soaked it up like an eager sponge. Unlike her initial difficulties in practicing her Thu’um, learning the language came with an ease that reminded her of recalling distant memories. Their meaning was already within her; it was simply a matter of bringing it forth. In this, it was only time, or rather, her lack of that particular commodity, that hindered her. Arngeir kept her busy, and more often than not, she was so exhausted at the end of the day it took all of her remaining strength just to make it back to her bed.

  
  


Sigrun had lost count of the number of days she’d spent atop the mountain, but one morning in what she estimated to be the third week, she was asked to meet the monks in the courtyard. To her great delight, Arngeir informed her that she was ready to move on to a new Word of Power: _Wuld,_ or whirlwind. 

  
  


Like previous Words, Sigrun found it took little effort to project the power of _Wuld_ into a clumsy Shout. Accuracy once again proved the bigger challenge, even with Borri’s gift of understanding. Unlike the unstoppable power of _Fus_ , _Wuld_ imbued her with all the speed of a gust of wind. In an instant, she could traverse great distances, seeming to vanish from sight as the world blurred around her, only to reappear a heartbeat later, several dozen paces from where she began. It was exhilarating, both for the ability it imparted and the thrill of danger that went along with knowing that the slightest error could have her sprinting right off the mountain. For once, Sigrun was grateful for the repetitive target practice of the last few weeks. While not entirely applicable in this instance, the patience and restraint she’d learned at Master Arngeir’s insistence went a long way in preventing such a disaster from occurring - not that she would ever tell _him_ that.

  
  


The sun placed the time an hour or two after noon when Arngeir announced an end to the lesson. 

  
  


“You’ve done well,” he offered in one of his rare compliments. “It took us many years to learn what you have mastered in a matter of days. You are ready for your final trial.”

  
  


Sigrun ignored the prickle of annoyance his words evoked. While she might not enjoy the old monk’s methods, she could not deny their effectiveness. Still, it irked that with every victory came yet another test, another request to prove herself.

  
  


“What is required of me in this trial?” 

  
  


“The tomb of our founder, Jurgen Windcaller, lies in the ruins of Ustengrav. You will travel, there, seek out his tomb, and retrieve from it his horn. Return to High Hrothgar when you have completed this task.”

  
  


“Understood,” Sigrun replied, bowing her head in acknowledgment of her instructions. “I will leave at once.” 

  
  


Descending the Seven Thousand steps, while still hazardous, took less time than climbing them. She was not saddled with a sack teaming with preserved food, for one, and so did not require the frequent stops her burden had demanded of her. In only a few short hours, Sigrun was back at the foot of the mountain, but she did not enter Ivarstead. She had planned to stop in and at least check in on Róta before going after the horn, but had decided against it in the end. This test was for her, and her alone, and she didn’t want to delay it further by arguing with the girl about why she would once again remain behind. She’d find Róta in another day or so, when her training was complete and they could go about fulfilling their other obligations. After all, how hard could the retrieval of one item be?

  
  


Deep in the bowels of Ustengrav, Sigrun would regret her hasty dismissal. Of course, Arngeir’s final test would not be simple; she’d been a fool to think otherwise. But it was not the necromancer guarding the entrance of the barrow, with his host of bandit thralls to protect him, that made her consider the possibility of failure, nor the score of animated dead inside. It was, to her undying shame, a simple gate that halted her progress, or rather, a series of gates. 

  
  


Sigrun cast a look of disgust at three stone mounds, each carved with red runes that emitted a soft glow. The trick to opening the gates was simple enough, or so she had thought. When she passed by the stones, each opened one of the portcullises beyond, thought the effect was temporary, lasting a few seconds at best. Not even her whirlwind Shout granted her enough speed to get through all three before they slammed closed again. She’d come close once, but in her rising anger, lost control and ended up slamming into the wall. 

  
  


With the air crushed from her lungs, Sigrun sank to the floor in a daze. Beyond a few well deserved bruises and her tattered pride, she appeared uninjured, and thanked whatever gods might be listening that Arngeir was not present to witness her folly. Taking a deep breath, the young woman considered her options. During her exploration of the barrow, she’d discovered _Feim_ , or fade, a new Word of Power, but had neither the time nor the proper state of mind to hazard more than a guess at what it would do. It might be of use here, or it might not; either way, the Word’s power was unavailable to her right then. _Wuld_ it was.

  
  


After a careful inspection of the distance between the rune stones and the gates, Sigrun decided the hardest part would be in getting the timing right. If she could get a running start, begin her sprint from behind the stones, and time her Shout for just after she passed them, it might give her that fraction of a second she seemed to be missing. 

  
  


Hoping she didn’t look as foolish as she felt, the young woman aligned her body so that she was at the proper angle of both the glowing stones and the portcullises and took off at a hard run. Twice more, she failed, the first gate closing just as she reached it. The third time, just as she made it to the first gate, she snatched at every bit of power she could muster and unleashed a second Shout, ending up in a heap at the foot of a short set of stairs. With a crow of triumph, the Nord got to her feet, eager to find the horn and be done with this place. 

  
  


Sigrun found the tomb tucked away at the far end of a flooded, cavernous chamber in the deepest part of the ruins. Shadows danced across an uneven stone walkway that led into the room, cast by torches that spilled their light across the murky green water on either side. On a dais wreathed in candles sat a coffer, its stone carved with depictions of various dragons, silent and unchanging in their eternal vigil over the final resting place of Jurgen Windcaller. 

  
  


As soon as she stepped onto the path, the stone beneath her feet trembled, a groaning rumble shattering the silent stillness of the tomb. Four dragon statues, carved in ancient Nordic design, rose from the water in a shower of droplets, and then came to a grinding halt that echoed throughout the chamber. 

  
  


The Nord placed a hand over her heart as if to contain its wild fluttering and took a calming breath to steady herself. When it appeared the tomb was out of surprises, she made her way across the walkway and stopped before the sarcophagus of the first Graybeard. Where she expected to find the horn she saw only a bit of rolled parchment. 

  
  


Sigrun read the scrawled note, eyes narrowing as fury boiled up within her.

  
  


  
  


_Dragonborn--_

  


_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._

_\--A friend_

  
  


“Dibella’s tits!” she growled, crumpling the scrap of parchment in her clenched fist. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  
  


*********

There was little Sigrun despised more than the feeling of being manipulated. Not only was the horn stolen, but the thief, obviously well aware of the item’s significance, had the gall to leave her an ultimatum. Of course, there was the very real possibility that this was all a trap, and her overactive imagination needed no prodding to supply her with a dozen or so different detailed scenarios of just what she might be walking into. Nothing came close to the shame of returning to High Hrothgar empty-handed, however. It was that, and that alone, that sent her to Riverwood, despite the deep suspicion that she was being led like a marionette; dancing on her strings to the tug of unseen hands.

  
  


It was dark when she arrived at the Sleeping Giant Inn, several hours after sunset, but not late enough yet for both moons to be visible in the velvet sky. Sigrun shoved the door to the inn open with more force than necessary, lifting black brows in open challenge as a middle-aged Breton woman paused in her sweeping to turn and scowl. 

  
  


Sigrun strode to the bar and clapped down a few coins, ignoring the stares from the inn’s few patrons.

  
  


“I’d like the attic room, please,” she requested, forcing a lightness into her tone that was at odds with her black mood. 

  
  


The grim-faced Nord behind the counter gave her a look that suggested he believed her to be simple and shook his head. 

  
  


“I’d like a lot of things, lass,” he laughed, polishing a pewter mug with a stained cloth. “Don’t mean I’m going to get them.” 

  
  


Sigrun’s left eye twitched. If she ever found the thief who set her up, she was going to take that horn and cram it-

  
  


“We don’t have an attic room,” a rough feminine voice cut in, interrupting her fantasies of revenge. The blond woman with the broom came up to her, casting a critical eye over Sigrun’s travel-worn clothes and dirty appearance. “I’ll find you something. Follow me.”

  
  


The innkeeper led her to a room, but gave no indication of leaving. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she closed the door and turned to face the Nord. Sigrun’s mouth fell open, ready to voice her protest and send the woman on her way, but the blond caught her eyes and shook her head.

  
  


“Not here,” she whispered, raising a hand to forestall any further exchange.

  
  


She opened the wardrobe, and with a precision that spoke of having done this exact thing many times before, pressed a small panel that caused the back of the cupboard to swing open onto a hidden staircase. The woman descended the stairs, not waiting to see if she would be followed.

  
  


Sigrun hesitated as she stepped through the wardrobe. Something was afoot, but then, she had known that since she’d discovered the horn was missing. The note and the blond woman’s odd behavior were too much to write off as simple coincidence, and Sigrun suspected she had her thief. For whatever reason, the innkeeper had gone to considerable effort to find her and secure her cooperation. 

  
  


_Well, you found me_ , Sigrun thought darkly as she started down the stairs. _Gods help you if this is a waste of my time._

  
  


“The Graybeards seem to think you’re Dragonborn,” the woman said without looking up from the table she was leaning over. “I hope they’re right.”

  
  


“I’m here for the horn,” Sigrun replied in a flat voice. 

  
  


The innkeeper turned and retrieved something from a shelf and held it out to her. Sigrun took the horn, turning it over in her hand as she examined it. It was an ugly thing, ancient and gnarled, not at all what she had expected. There was no real way to be certain that this was the actual horn, but it appeared to be old enough, so she tucked it away into her pack. 

  
  


“I’m Delphine. Taking the horn was the only way I could be sure this wasn’t a Thalmor trap,” the woman explained. “And you have it back. No harm done.”

  
  


“No harm done,” Sigrun agreed, fighting to keep her tone pleasant. “Now, if you’re finished wasting my time, I really ought to bring this back to Hrothgar and get on with this Dragonborn business.”

  
  


“Wait!” the woman cried. “Aren’t you at least going to hear me out?”

  
  


Sigrun gave Delphine a cold look.

  
  


“For one so worried about the Thalmor, you certainly share their penchant for deceit. I don’t like games.” 

  
  


“This isn’t a game,” the Breton woman sighed. “I apologize for my methods, but they were necessary.”

  
  


“All I know, is that you had better start explaining why you dragged me here.”

  
  


“Or what?” Delphine retorted, challenge in her eyes. “I’ll explain when I’m good and ready, got that?” She sighed again and rubbed a hand across her eyes. “I am not your enemy. Believe it or not, I want to help you.”

  
  


Sigrun laughed, but it was too harsh to contain either joy or amusement. 

  
  


“Stealing the horn I was sent to find is not the kind of help I’m looking for.”

  
  


“I already told you why I did that! Thalmor spies are everywhere. I knew the Graybeards would only send you after the horn if they thought you were the Dragonborn.”

  
  


“Why do you care if I am or not?”

  
  


“Because, while most people may have forgotten the purpose of the Dragonborn, I have not. You are the only one who can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul.” She looked up at Sigrun, both hope and doubt mingled across her features. “Can you?”

  
  


Sigrun nodded. 

  
  


“That’s what led to…all this.”

  
  


“Good. You can prove it to me soon enough.”

  
  


“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Sigrun scoffed. “Frankly, it’s not any of your business.”

  
  


“You are the only one who has a chance at stopping these dragons,” the innkeeper argued. “That makes it my business.”

  
  


“All that tells me is that you need me more than I need you.”

  
  


“You really think the dragons are just going to leave you out of it?” Delphine asked in disbelief. “This affects you as much as anyone else - maybe even more. The dragons are going to hunt the only one capable of killing them.”

  
  


Sigrun had to admit that there was probably some truth to that, at least. Arngeir had already told her that he could only guide her to her destiny, not point it out. If this woman knew something she didn’t, the wisest course of action would be to hear what she had to say. Though she may hate the idea of having to prove herself once again, the innkeeper had information about the dragons that the Graybeards either could not or would not share with her. 

  
  


“I’m listening, Sigrun said at last. “What do you want from me?”

  
  


Blue eyes met her own, seeming to gage her sincerity before the Breton motioned her over to the table. 

  
  


“The dragons weren’t all just hiding somewhere. They were dead; hunted down and killed, long ago, until they were all but extinct. Something is bringing them back to life.” 

  
  


“Alright. But if that’s the case, what do you want me to do about it?”

  
  


“I tell you dragons are coming back to life, and that’s all you have to say, huh? Most people would think I was crazy.”

  
  


Sigrun shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. 

  
  


“Most people didn’t watch a dead dragon burst into flames and then take in its soul. I’ve developed something of a tolerance for the incredible since then.” She gave the woman a pointed look. “I’m also assuming you have evidence of this.”

  
  


Tapping a map on the table with her finger, Delphine nodded and said, “Right here, thanks to you. That dragonstone Farengar sent you after was a map of ancient burial sites. I’ve been to some of them and the mounds are empty. With his help, I was able to figure out where the next one will be. If the pattern holds true, the next one to come to life will just outside of Kynesgrove. If we can get there before it happens, maybe we can figure out how to stop it.”

  
  


“If your theory is correct.” 

  
  


“The pattern is clear, I’m sure of it,” the Breton insisted.

  
  


“It would seem we each have something to prove to the other,” Sigrun remarked. 

  
  


It might be petty, but she was unwilling to shoulder the burden of proof on her own, especially since the other woman’s claim was just as outlandish as hers. 

  
  


“I suppose so. You’re with me, then?”

  
  


“For now. But if I do this, no more games,” Sigrun warned. “I don’t like being manipulated.”

  
  


“If you really are the Dragonborn, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  
  


“Fair enough. Let’s go find your resurrected dragon.”

  
  


************

As they approached the village of Kynesgrove, it was all too apparent that something was wrong. This time of day, there should have been villagers about, carrying on with the chores of everyday life, but Sigrun saw that the tiny stead was all but deserted. Yet there was nothing to indicate the presence of a dragon. The dwellings, though empty, remained unharmed. No fires burned as they had outside of Whiterun, and the chill air was crisp and fresh, free of the acrid scent of smoke.

  
  


“This way,” the innkeeper called, indicating a small trail that led behind the village and up a hill. “Be on your guard. We might be too late.”

  
  


Sigrun drew her axe and started for the path. The thudding of feet caught her attention and she turned to see a dark-haired woman running towards them. 

  
  


“Wait!” the woman cried. “You don’t want to go up there. A dragon! There’s a dragon attacking the village.”

  
  


Casting a doubtful eye around her, Sigrun said, “Are you certain? It doesn’t really look like a dragon has been here.”

  
  


“It’s here, I saw it! Huge, and black as sin. It flew right over the village and landed on the old burial mound. I don’t know what it’s doing up there, but I’m not waiting around to find out!”

  
  


Warning given, the woman turned without another word and sprinted from the village, disappearing down the road. 

  
  


Ice slid down Sigrun’s spine and settled in the pit of her stomach as she stared after her. The description of the beast, brief as it was, fit the dragon from Helgen. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that another could share a similar appearance, but she knew, with a certainty she could not explain, it was the same one. 

  
  


“You haven’t lost your nerve, have you?” The innkeeper’s voice broke through Sigrun’s silent dread, the hint of mockery all too clear in her impatient tone. “Come on, let’s go!”

  
  


Sigrun grit her teeth and turned toward the path, not bothering to deign a response. By Talos, that woman was annoying! With any luck, the coming battle would cure the Breton of some of her insufferable smugness. Of course, that hope was based on the assumption they would even survive the encounter. Sigrun placed a fair amount of confidence in her own abilities, but she was not so arrogant to think she was any match for the black dragon that still haunted her dreams. Not even the Thalmor were able to inspire the the same kind of fear that it woke in her. From what little she could piece together of the fragmented echoes of Mirmulnir’s soul, the dragon was feared even amongst its own kind.

  
  


The Nord crouched beside the blond woman, hidden behind the cover of a boulder, yet still able to see the burial mound before them. An unearthly roar split the eerie stillness of the clearing, shaking Sigrun to her core. The flapping of great wings that followed bade her to look up and confirm all of her fears. It was the black dragon from Helgen. It flew over the mound in a sweeping circle before pausing to hover above it. 

  
  


“ _Sahloknir,”_ it rumbled, in that dark and terrible voice. “ _Ziil gro dovah ulse!”_

  
  


A shudder went through her as Sigrun struggled to translate. Clouded by the fog of adrenaline, what she knew of the dragon tongue eluded her, the meaning of the words surfacing for one brief, taunting instant, only to turn and and slip from her grasp. 

  
  


The dragon pulled in a mighty breath and let loose a series of powerful syllables that rent the air with the boom of thunder.

  
  


“This is worse than I thought,” Delphine muttered. “What’s it doing?”

  
  


“Shouting,” Sigrun whispered. “Look!”

  
  


The ground quaked beneath their feet as the packed earth of the mound heaved upward. In an explosion of dirt and debris, the skeletal remains of a dragon broke free and clawed its way from the wounded ground. The eyes of both women widened in horrified disbelief at the scene playing out in front of them. The stained and pitted bones of the dragon glowed with sinister light as flesh and scales spread to cover them. In some twisted reversal of the process that had stripped Mirmulnir’s corpse to nothing, this dragon was being reborn right in front of them. Within a few beats of Sigrun’s frantic heart, the transformation was complete. 

  
  


“ _Alduin, thuri!”_ the beast roared, bowing its massive head in deference to the larger dragon still in flight above them. “ _Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?”_

  
  


Sigrun heard the thundering response, but her racing thoughts left her little attention to spare. _Alduin_. She had a name for the dragon at last. There was power in that, even if that power was limited to peeling away a bit of the mystery surrounding the creature. The truth, however terrible, was often far less frightening than the unknown. She had a starting point now, something to work with, and if necessary, exploit to her advantage. 

  
  


The Nord woman dared a quick look from behind the boulder and froze. Alduin’s eyes were fixed on her, a flame of recognition burning in their crimson depths. In those eyes, she saw untold destruction and slaughter. In those eyes, she saw death. 

  
  


“ _Zu'u koraav hi, joor,”_ the dragon sneered. “ _Motaas med sahlag ulfah hi los. Hi los nid dovah.”_

  
  


Sigrun did not need to call upon her limited knowledge of _Dovahzul_ to detect the current of disdain that carried the dragon’s words to her, and there was no question who that contempt was directed at. Alduin knew what she was, but instead of attacking as she had expected, the dragon tossed its great ebon head and issued a sound akin to the slow rumble of an avalanche. It took her several moments to comprehend that the beast was laughing at her.

  
  


“You do not even know our tongue, do you?” the dragon mocked, its eyes never leaving her.

  
  


Heat flooded her face, and Sigrun rose to her feet and stepped from behind the boulder. 

  
  


“ _Zu'u mindok ganog,”_ she replied without thinking, pleased when her tongue did not stumble over the guttural words. 

  
  


“Not half as much as your arrogance leads you to believe. You dare to call yourself one of the _dov_? You are but an insect, unworthy of falling to my Voice. _Sahloknir, krii daar joorre.”_

  
  


Through slitted eyes, she watched Alduin’s dark form retreat, his parting words echoing through her mind. The dragon’s casual dismissal filled her with a rage so hot she thought it might consume her. Something inside her uncoiled and bared its fangs at the insult, demanding retribution, but Alduin was gone, the matter of dealing with her passed to one of its subordinates. 

  
  


Sahloknir, the remaining dragon, let out a roar that left Sigrun’s ears ringing, and took to the sky. Bits of dirt and debris caught in the downdraft of its powerful wings stung her eyes, and she blinked several times in an effort to clear her blurred vision. When she could see again, the dragon hovered above her and breathed a gust of frigid air that caused crystals of ice to form in a delicate pattern over her clothing and hair. Her innate resistance to frost went a long way in protecting her from serious harm, but the dragon’s icy breath was still enough to make the muscles in her arms and legs ache with cold. With a grimace of pain, Sigrun forced her stiff fingers to wrap even tighter around the chilled hilt of her axe, the weapon having grown impossibly heavy in her weakened grasp. 

  
  


“We need to get it out the air,” Delphine yelled from her side.

  
  


Sigrun nodded and fumbled for the bow at her back. The Breton muttered something inaudible and nocked an arrow, spinning in a slow circle to follow the dragon’s movements as she took aim. The arrow sailed true, burying itself in the creature’s side, but it might as well have been the bite of a fly for all the attention the dragon gave it. It turned in the air, demonstrating surprising agility for a beast of its size, and swept over the women with a rush of its wings. The massive jaws opened as it dove towards them, and Sigrun dropped her bow and stumbled backwards, avoiding by mere inches a bite that would have cleaved her in two. 

  
  


Another arrow hit its mark, this one embedded just below the armored spines on the beast’s back, and Sahloknir bellowed in fury. Eyes blazing, it whirled on Delphine and sucked in a breath.

  
  


“ _YOL!”_

  
  


Fire rained down on the woman, engulfing her in flame, and eliciting a cry of pain. Sigrun snatched up her bow, screeching a curse when her own shot went wide. Her next arrow hit, ripping through the dragon’s leathery wing, and the beast turned its full wrath on the Nord. It landed in front of her with a crash, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust as it crawled towards her. 

  
  


“I do not fear you, _Dovahkiin_!” it growled, lunging forward with a snap of its teeth. 

  
  


“You will,” Sigrun promised, darting out of reach. “ _Wuld_!”

  
  


In an instant, she was at its flank, her bow discarded in favor of her axe. Blood spurted in a crimson arc as the blade bit deep into the scaled hide. The dragon roared and thrashed its tail in agitation. It kicked at her with a hind leg, raking its talons across her armor, leaving ragged slices in the cured leather. As she spun away, the dragon turned, its jaws opening in the beginning of another Shout Sigrun had no intention of letting it complete. 

  
  


“ _Fus!”_

  
  


Acting on instinct alone, the Nord let loose her own Thu’um. The dragon gave a furious shake of its head and snapped its mouth closed, but was otherwise unscathed as it lifted into the air once more. She had been hoping for a more damaging effect, but perhaps this was even better. The ability to interrupt a Shout had plenty of use on its own. 

  
  


The battle continued in this manner for some time. Delphine sent arrow after arrow into the beast while it remained out of reach, and when it landed, Sigrun set on it with her axe, doing her best to save the power of her Voice to counter the dragon’s breath. When Sahloknir’s wings were so ragged and tattered it could no longer fly, both women slashed at the dragon until its scales were spattered in red. With one last swing of her axe, Sigrun buried the blade into the beast’s head and it crumpled to the ground where it remained unmoving.

  
  


With a groan of effort, Sigrun pulled her axe free and wiped at the gore streaking her face. The carcass twitched once before bursting into flames, and the Nord braced herself for the onslaught she knew was coming. When it was over, she saw Delphine staring at her with wild eyes, and smirked at the woman. 

  
  


“By the gods, it’s true,” the Breton whispered. “You really are Dragonborn.”

  
  


  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the formatting. HTML frustrates me to no end, so I use a converter. I'm not sure why it left such huge spaces in this chapter, or how to remove them.


	6. By a Thread

  


In the dim lighting of the Sleeping Giant’s secret room, Sigrun searched Delphine’s face, seeking the slightest indication that the other woman was being less than truthful with her. Finding none, she was forced to admit that, as incredulous as the Breton’s story was, it was likely true.

  


_Or she’s simply skilled at lying._

  


Sigrun cast the thought aside as soon as it entered her mind. Delphine had already shown herself willing to deceive in order to get her way, but the other woman struck her as a practical sort. Manipulating circumstances to her advantage was one thing; making up wild stories, quite another.

  


The Nord nodded slowly, passing a weary hand over her eyes.

  


“I can accept that you are one of the last Blades. I can even believe that, before the Septim line, your organization hunted dragons. What I don’t understand is why you believe the Thalmor have anything to do with the dragons’ return. I would warn anyone against underestimating their influence, but you’re giving them an awful lot of credit.”

  


“I know,” Delphine sighed. “If you want proof, I don’t have that - yet. That’s why I need your help. My gut tells me that it _has_ to be them. Who else would benefit?”

  


Sigrun snorted, a crooked grin tugging up one side of her mouth.

  


“Coming back to life is certainly advantageous to the dragons. And we were there. I didn’t see any Thalmor creeping around that mound.”

  


The Breton’s features darkened in a frown of frustration, deepening the crease between her brows and setting her lips in a thin line.

  


“You don’t understand. Ulfric was captured - his war was over. Then he escapes because a dragon attacks, and the war is back on. Both sides are killing each other and the dragons are taking care of what’s left. Skyrim is weakened. The _Empire_ is weakened. The Thalmor are the only ones who have anything to gain from all of this.”

  


There was a grim sort of sense to Delphine’s reasoning, Sigrun admitted, but it wasn’t enough to remove the image of Alduin hovering over the burial mound from her mind. It wasn’t the ambition of the Thalmor that she doubted, but their ability. It would take more than unsubstantiated theories to convince her that any mortal was capable of what she saw at Kynesgrove.

  


“I don’t think we should assume the elves are behind this just yet,” Sigrun argued. “The other dragon at Kynesgrove, the black one, is the same dragon that attacked Helgen. That seems like more than coincidence to me.”

  


Delphine’s eyes widened a fraction before narrowing at the Nord woman.

  


“You’re certain? Do you know anything else about it?”

  


“It’s the same dragon. Sahloknir called it Alduin. I’m not sure what else I can tell you about it except that it’s both feared and respected amongst the other dragons, and it knows what I am.”

  


“Alduin? You mean _the_ Alduin?”

  


Sigrun shrugged.

  


“Does the name mean something to you?”

  


“Maybe,” Delphine sighed. “An old friend told me about some prophecy involving Alduin; dark stuff, end of days, that sort of thing. He was obsessed. At the time, it all sounded crazy, but now I wish I’d payed more attention. He might have been on to something after all. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He’s probably dead by now.”

  


“The Graybeards might know something. I could ask Master Arngeir.”

  


“Even if they did know, there’s no guarantee they’ll tell you,” Delphine scoffed. “We can’t waste time. The Thalmor are still our best lead. If they aren’t behind the dragon’s returning, they’ll know who is. We need a way to get into their embassy. Then we could find out everything they know.”

  


Sigrun pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to stave off the dull throb that signaled the beginning of a headache. For a woman who claimed to fear the Thalmor catching up with her, she certainly seemed eager to catch their attention.

  


“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but what do you suggest? Breaking in is going to be near impossible and asking nicely isn’t likely to get us very far.”

  


The Breton hummed in thought as she tapped her fingers on the table.

  


“Their ambassador, Elenwen, likes to throw parties for the rich and connected of Skyrim. I’ll get you an invitation to one of those parties. Once you’re in, all you have to do is slip away and find Elenwen’s office. Any information the Thalmor have about the dragons will be in her secret files.”

  


“Absolutely not.”

  


The calm but complete rejection of her plan seemed to take Delphine by surprise, as though the other woman had never even considered that Sigrun might refuse her. For a long time, she was silent, but her eyes, frigid as chips of ice, were calculating. When she spoke again, her words were clipped, any semblance of her earlier attempts at warmth gone.

  


“It’s a solid plan, and the only one we have.”

  


“I’ve noticed you say ‘we’ up until the part where this plan of yours involves _me_ impersonating a guest and sneaking into Elenwen’s private quarters. You act like this is a partnership - a partnership you _forced_ , I might add - up until it involves any real risk. Then, I’m suddenly on my own, expected to follow your orders based on what? Trust?” Sigrun laughed and shook her head. “That trust hasn’t been established.”

  


“I helped you fight that dragon,” Delphine snapped. “You’re telling me there was no risk involved in that?”

  


“You demanded proof, so of course you had to be there. Besides, I think we both know that there is a vast difference between dying to a dragon and dying at the hands of the Thalmor.”

  


The Breton was all but growling in frustration now, pacing the length of the small room in agitation, her hands moving in angry gestures meant to punctuate her statements.

  


“If I could just walk in there myself, I wouldn’t need you! The Thalmor have been hunting me for years; they’ll know me on sight. You’re a new face, they don’t know you at all yet. Don’t you get what’s at stake here? It _has_ to be you-”

  


“You’re wrong,” the Nord interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve been a… guest of the Thalmor before.” She waved a dismissive hand at Delphine’s widened eyes. “Oh, I’m nowhere near your level of fame, I’m sure, but you understand why I’m not eager to repeat the experience. Part of the reason I came to Skyrim was to stay ahead of the elves, so you’ll have to pardon my reluctance to agree to a plan that requires I walk into their embassy and introduce myself.”

  


Delphine stopped her pacing and leaned against the table, her gaze never leaving the Nord.

  


“Alright, I understand,” she said in what Sigrun assumed was an attempt at reassurance. “I know a thing or two about paranoia, believe me. I have a contact in Solitude who should be able to help, and you and I can come up with a story. You won’t have to use your real name.”

  


“It isn’t paranoia, and an alias isn’t enough,” Sigrun hissed. “You said yourself: the Thalmor have spies everywhere. How long do you think it will take before all of those spies have my description? Even if this plan of yours goes perfectly, they aren’t going to let something like this go without reprisal. Who do you think that’s going to fall on?”

  


A slow grin spread across the Breton woman’s face. Half-hidden in shadow as it was, her expression was almost predatory.

“You’re right,” she acknowledged with a dip of her head. “But what if that description was… inaccurate? What if they weren’t looking for _you_?”

  


“What in Oblivion does _that_ mean? Gods help me, Delphine, if you don’t start making some sort of sense, I’m leaving Riverwood, and I’m not coming back; dragons be damned!”

  


“Ever heard of the face sculptor?”

 

******

It was odd, and more than a little disconcerting, Sigrun mused as the carriage to the embassy bumped along, to look at one’s reflection and see a stranger staring back. Odder still was the absence of the familiar curves and angles of her own face. Simple gestures that she had made all her life without conscious thought - brushing an unruly lock of hair from her eyes, resting her chin in her palm, even something as simple as scratching her nose - suddenly felt alien and wrong. More than once, the Nord had to remind herself that the change was only temporary.

  


The differences were subtle; her cheekbones were just a bit higher, her jaw a little rounder, her eyes, now a deep blue, set just a touch wider. The combined result, however, was such that not even Delphine had recognized her. Riften’s face sculptor had charged an exorbitant sum for her services, and Sigrun would admit that Galathil had done exactly as she had requested. Even so, the Nord was holding off her applause until her own features were restored. Changing something seemed easy enough; putting it right again was most often the hard part.

  


“Here we are,” the driver called back.

  


The wheels gave a creaking groan as the carriage slowed and rocked to a stop. Sigrun thanked the driver waving off his offer of assistance as she climbed down. As Delphine had promised, the invitation she carried was authentic. The guard posted at the door spared little more than a glance at the Ambassador’s seal before directing her inside.

  


Doubt began to nag at her the moment she entered the embassy. There was a certain freedom in anonymity, one that had provided a much-needed bolster to her confidence as she went along with this insane plan, but here, actually in the lair of her enemies, that confidence was lagging as old fears threatened to resurface. She was on her own now. Delphine had tried to arrange an inside contact, but Sigrun had refused, arguing that there was no reason to get anyone else involved in this mess.

  


Nervous fingers reached for the reassuring weight of her axe only to grasp empty air. Catching her blunder, Sigrun stilled her hand, instead smoothing the pristine fabric of her borrowed dress as though that was what she had intended all along. The Nord drew a deep breath and issued silent orders to pull herself together, all the while offering a polite smile to the Altmer coming toward her. That smile almost slipped as she recognized her as the same woman from Helgen.

  


“Welcome,” greeted the Altmer, her lips pulled back in an expression that was as much sneer as smile. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I am Elenwen, First Emissary of the Thalmor. And you are…?”

  


“Brynja,” Sigrun lied. “What a pleasure it is to meet you, Madame Ambassador.”

  


“Ah, yes. The pleasure is mine, I’m sure. I remember your name from the guest list, but I’m afraid I was told little else about you. Tell me, what is it that brings you to Skyrim?”

  


The Altmer’s tawny eyes were as cunning as any sabre cat’s when fixed on its prey. Sigrun had the uncomfortable feeling that _she_ was that prey. Any mistake now would cause the cat to turn and pounce, and there would be no escape.

  


“My employer heard rumors that certain circles in Skyrim might be ripe for new business ventures,” Sigrun replied, keeping her voice light. “I am here to see if those rumors prove accurate.”

  


“And who might your employer be?”

  


“Madame Ambassador?” a timid male voice called, and Sigrun sent a silent prayer of gratitude for the interruption.

  


“What is it now, Malborn?” the Altmer asked sharply.

  


“Madame Ambassador, I apologize, but there is a small… problem with one of your guests. It’s Razelan…”

  


“And he promised to behave himself this time,” Elenwen sighed to herself. “Very well. I’ll see to Razelan in a moment.” She turned to Sigrun and offered an apologetic smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry. You and I will have to get better acquainted later.”

  


“I look forward to it,” Sigrun murmured.

  


The Nord hung back as she watched the ambassador stride back into the main room with purpose and approach a Redguard seated on a decorative bench. She couldn’t hear what was said, but the reprimand in her tone was obvious even at that distance. The man threw his arms wide in a loose, clumsy motion, raising his voice in drunken indignation as he argued whatever accusations were laid against him. When it was evident that Elenwen’s attention was firmly fixed elsewhere, Sigrun sighed out a breath she had not been aware she was holding.

  


She needed to do what she came here for, and soon. The flimsy identity she and Delphine created for Brynja was meant for the curious inquiries of other guests; it would never hold up under the probing scrutiny of the ambassador. Elenwen would be back, under the guise of more smalltalk, and Sigrun was not fool enough to wait around and see just how ‘acquainted’ the ambassador wanted to get.

  


Sidling up to a refreshment station, Sigrun signaled the Bosmer behind the counter - Malborn, Elenwen had called him - for a drink. She’d no intention of actually imbibing the beverage, but if she was to play a guest, it didn’t hurt to look the part.

  


“Here you are, miss,” Malborn said as he slid a silver cup carved with flowing elven designs her way, and poured a generous amount of amber liquid into it. “The finest Colovian brandy.”

  


With a quick glance around him, the Bosmer leaned in and lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “I can still get you past the guard if you need me. Just say the word.”

  


Ah. Malborn must be Delphine’s contact. Biting back her irritation, Sigrun met his eyes and shook her head. Malborn’s help would certainly expedite things, but she preferred to do this on her own. At least that way, any mistakes were her own and she didn’t have to worry about him turning on her later. She’d already explained this to Delphine when they were working out the details of her cover story, but apparently the Breton saw fit to include him anyway. Sigrun had a thing or two to say to that, but it would have to wait.

  


“Keep pouring,” she said, indicating the cup. “Saves me the trouble of coming back later.” When the cup was close to brimming, Sigrun waved the bottle away and pretended to take a sip. “Safer for you if you stay out of it,” she murmured.

  


“Suit yourself,” was the muttered reply. “Enjoy the party, miss.”

  


Taking her drink, Sigrun surveyed the gathering as she planned her next move. It was important that she appear as just another guest, but there was a delicate balance that had to be maintained. Chatting with others was expected, but conversation led to questions, and questions were best avoided right now.

  


Sigrun made her way further into the room, pausing by a selection of cheeses and helped herself to a portion. She eyed the knife she was holding, hesitating only a moment before slipping the blade into her sleeve. It wasn’t much, but it was far more discreet than a Shout or magic if she needed to defend herself.

  


Most of the guests had split off into small groups of two or three, and the low murmur of several voices talking at once hummed beneath the melodious notes of a talented flautist. Few of the faces here were familiar to her, and she had little reason to talk to those she did recognize - a decided drawback to her disguise. One man was seated alone, and, by the look of things, actively being ignored by the others. It was the same man Elenwen had spoken to earlier, Sigrun realized. Judging by his slumped sprawl on the bench, his drunken state had not improved. She could work with that.

  


Drink in hand, Sigrun sauntered over and sat down next to the Redguard.

  


“Lovely party,” she commented, flashing the man a flirtatious smile.

  


Well, hello,” the Redguard drawled, bloodshot eyes lighting with interest. “Name’s Razelan. I don’t remember seeing you at one of Elenwen’s little soirees before.”

  


“That’s because you haven’t. I’m new to Skyrim. My name is Brynja.”

  


“New, huh? Business or pleasure?”

  


“I don’t see why it can’t be a bit of both,” Sigrun replied with a wink. “Do you know the ambassador well?”

  


Razelan barked a laugh. “I know she’s cold s'a icewraith and twice as sly. Not really much else to say ‘bout that one. I only come for the drinks, myself, and now they won’t even let me have _that_ small comfort.” He tipped his cup upside-down to illustrate its empty state. “Said I was dis- disstrupt- … _bothering_ the other guests. Ha! Do ‘em all good to loosen up a little, if you ask me - which you didn’t - but there you have it.”

  


“What kind of hostess allows her guests to go thirsty?” Sigrun asked, placing a hand over her chest as if scandalized. “Clearly these Thalmor could learn a thing or two about proper hospitality.”

  


Razelan heaved a sigh, his expression thoroughly dejected. “I know.”

  


“Perhaps I could help you out,” Sigrun offered in a conspiratorial whisper.

  


“You would do tha’ for me?”

  


“Absolutely.” Taking his empty cup, Sigrun replaced it with her own, biting back a smile at Razelan’s perplexed expression. “There. Problem solved.”

  


“Well, thank you! If you need anything - anything at all - you just let me know.”

  


“I’ll make you a deal: you tell me what you know of the people here, and we’ll call it even.”

 

******

 

Razelan was decent company, Sigrun decided, if she was willing to overlook the increasing slur to his speech and his blatant attempts to close the distance between them. He made it clear he had an agenda, and wasn’t particularly concerned about hiding what that included. It was fortunate for him that she was feeling rather generous in the pursuit of her own agenda. She’d put together something of a plan as he prattled on about the other guests at the party. All she needed now was the right moment to put her thoughts into action.

  


“And Maven’s the _reealll_ power in Riften,” the Redguard mumbled, tilting his mug in the dark-haired woman’s direction. The cup’s contents sloshed, a few drops of the liquid spilling over the side. “They say she’s got ties t’the Thieves’ Guild _and_ the Dark Brotherhood.”

  


“Who are ‘they’?” Sigrun asked, not really caring about the answer. Razelan had been more than obliging in shedding light on the dirty little secrets of Skyrim’s elite, but the Nord suspected that well had run dry somewhere around his fourth drink.

  


“You know… _them_.”

  


He spread his hands wide, as if to indicate a collective whole. As the hand holding his recently refreshed drink crossed in front of her, Sigrun brought her own arm up at the same time. Startled by the sudden contact, Razelan lost his grip. Brandy soaked into the bodice of her gown as the cup hit the floor with a clang. Silence fell over the hall, every eye now turned their way.

  


_Perfect._

  


With a gasp of outrage, Sigrun surged to her feet, hands clutched to her chest.

  


“You- you _animal_!” she shrieked. “My dress is ruined. _Ruined_! How _utterly_ mortifying!” Brandy fumes wafted from the saturated fabric, stinging her eyes. Letting a few tears fall, Sigrun drew in a shuddering breath and bowed her head as if in humiliation. “I’ll never be able to show my face in public again.”

  


For the first few tense moments following her outburst, no one said anything. Then, the room exploded in a rush of movement and chatter. Razelan rose on unsteady feet and mumbled an apology, wiping at the stain in a slow, clumsy motion. Sigrun slapped his hand away as Elenwen stalked forward in long, angry strides.

  


“Don’t just stand there,” the ambassador reprimanded a serving girl. “Fetch a towel for our guest. Razelan, you were warned, and my patience has come to an end. Remove him at once!”

  


“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself on my account,” Sigrun interjected, her voice tremulous. “It was an accident, after all. I’m sure he’ll be more careful now.”

  


“Uh, right,” Razelan stammered, squinting up at the elven guard who had materialized behind him. “More careful. Sure.”

  


The ambassador sent the man a scathing look of disgust before waving off the guard. Razelan’s confusion was almost comical as he gave an emphatic nod and collapsed back on the bench.

  


“I’ll just…sit. Here. Here is good.”

  


“Very wise,” Elenwen said as she turned back to Sigrun. “Brynja, was it? Let me apologize. I do hope you won’t let this little mishap spoil the evening for you?”

  


“Oh, no,” Sigrun assured. “I’ve had a lovely time. It’s just…” She cast a doubtful look down at her stained clothing and bit her lip.

  


“Yes?”

  


“I don’t suppose I could go and… freshen up?”

  


For a few panicked heartbeats, Sigrun thought Elenwen saw through her act and had discovered her true purpose for being here. The ambassador’s response was just a little too delayed, the woman’s eyes on her just a little too long, but at last, she gave her a thin smile.

  


“Of course. Let none think ill of Thalmor _hospitality_.”

  


Before Sigrun had time to consider the implications of that particular statement, Elenwen gave a quick signal that brought another guard forward.

  


“See to it that Miss Brynja has what she needs to make herself presentable. In the future, my dear, perhaps you will take more care in choosing your company.”

  


Sigrun ducked her head and murmured a demure thanks, but the ambassador had already turned away, presumably to salvage what was left of her party. Within moments, the sounds of music and soft conversation floated through the room as Elenwen encouraged everyone to return to the festivities.

  


_Those bootlickers certainly know how to dance for their Thalmor masters._

  


The Nord kept a watchful eye on her escort as he led her down a short hall to a small room that served as storage. As the guard reached for something at his belt, Sigrun felt for the shape of the stolen knife still tucked in her sleeve. When he produced nothing more threatening than a ring of keys, she forced herself to relax, only now noticing the door in the back wall.

  


_Calm down! If Elenwen suspected anything, you’d be in a cell by now._

  


After getting the door open, the Thalmor soldier directed her inside with an impatient jerk of his head, and Sigrun found herself in a large cooking area. A Khajiit, the kitchen’s sole occupant, glanced up as the Nord entered, her features twisting into a scowl.

  


“You should not be in here,” the woman warned. “The mistress does not permit guests in the kitchen.”

  


“The mistress has made an exception, Tsavani,” the guard sneered, stepping around Sigrun. “Or did you think she would be so careless as to lose track of her guests?”

  


“No,” the Khajiit said, lowering her eyes back to her work. “I should not have assumed.”

  


“No, you shouldn’t have. Now, fetch a basin of water. Be quick about it! I have other duties to attend to.”

  


As Tsavani hurried off to do as she was told, Sigrun plotted her next move. As condescending as the soldier had been, he was right: Elenwen knew where she was, and it was only a matter of time until the ambassador took note of her prolonged absence. She had a narrow window to work in before an alarm went out and every Thalmor in the place started looking for her. When that happened, she was going to need more than a cheese knife.

  


Her stomach gave a nervous flutter as the Nord’s thoughts raced. The guard would have to be dealt with, and soon. The cook was another matter. Sigrun had no compunctions about taking a life, but she did not do so without cause. Tsavani had done her no harm, and killing her for the sake of convenience would be murder, a line - blurred perhaps, but a line nonetheless - she was not willing to cross. She’d have to find another method of getting the woman out of her way.

  


When Tsavani returned with the water, the guard called Sigrun over to a small alcove. Cups, plates, and other tableware were stacked neatly on shelves that lined the walls. In the center of the tiny room sat a table and a large wooden tub, a stack of towels folded beside it.

  


“Go on,” he ordered. “Everything you need should be in there.”

  


Sigrun wet a cloth and hesitated, sending the Altmer a look of disbelief as she flung a protective arm over her bosom.

  


“Must you stare?” she asked in a scandalized voice. “A woman needs privacy for these things.”

  


She had to bite her tongue to keep from smirking as the man gaped at her.

  


“Don’t flatter yourself, _Nord_ ,” he spat in disgust. “I’m only here to make sure you keep your hands off things that don’t belong to you.”

  


“Outrageous, simply outrageous!” Sigrun cried, waving the wet rag for emphasis. “First that drunk dumps his drink on me like I’m some tavern wench, and now you act as though I’m a common criminal! When my employer hears of this,-”

  


“Oh, enough already! I’ll turn around. Will that satisfy you? Just hurry it up.”

  


“I suppose,” Sigrun sighed. “I should consider myself fortunate that you’re allowing me to keep that much of my dignity.”

  


The guard grumbled something beneath his breath but turned his back to her. Sigrun dipped the cloth back in the tub and wrung it out, splashing a bit for effect. When she was certain that the soldier was going to keep his word and not look back, she drew the knife from her sleeve and crept up behind him, thankful that her soft shoes muffled her steps. Before she could lose her nerve, the Nord sprang at the man, pressing the cloth over his mouth with all of her strength. She brought the blade across his throat in a vicious slash before he had time to put up a proper struggle and held on tight as his body shuddered in her arms.

  


When the guard sagged against her, Sigrun lowered him to the floor, wiping her hands on the rag before tossing it into a corner. She had no time to hide the body, or the mess she’d made in killing him, but she needed as much time as she could get before it was discovered.

  


Peeking out into the kitchen, the Nord saw Tsavani over at the hearth, stirring an iron kettle that hung over the fire. After a minute or so of this, the Khajiit turned away and disappeared into the pantry.

  


Sigrun snatched the sword and a ring of keys from the Altmer’s corpse and crossed the kitchen in quick, light steps. Tsavani had her back to her, tail twitching in agitation as the cook searched for something on a low shelf. Without further pause, Sigrun pulled the door closed and jammed one of the keys in the lock, snapping it off for good measure.

  


“What are you doing?” Tsavani hissed from the other side. “Let me out of here!”

  


“Sit tight,” the Nord called over her shoulder, as she hurried from the kitchen “Someone will be by to help you with that soon enough.”

  


******

 

_This was a mistake._

  


That single thought played over and over in Sigrun’s mind as she stared down at the bodies of two soldiers. A third body, that of a mage, lay slumped over the stairs leading up to the second level. It was not their deaths that bothered her; she’d happily send every last Thalmor in this place to the Void, if given the chance. No, it was what she’d overheard the guards discussing before they died.

  


“ _I guess Herself is finally getting worried about all the dragon attacks.”_

  


“ _Good. I’ve been wondering how we were supposed to defend this place from a dragon.”_

  


Their conversation confirmed what she had suspected all along: Delphine was wrong. If the Thalmor were behind the return of the dragons, there was little reason that Elenwen would worry over an attack. There was still a chance that their plans had gone awry, that they had simply lost control of the situation, but the elves weren’t stupid. Anyone with as much sense as the gods gave a skeever would know the risk of loosing dragons on the world. If the Thalmor had done so, there would have been contingencies in place to prevent the beasts from turning on them.

  


Of course, that did not rule out the possibility that they knew something about who _was_ behind it. Sigrun believed otherwise, but all she had to base that belief on was gut instinct. It would not be enough to convince Delphine, but then, she doubted even a statement of disavowal signed in Elenwen’s own hand would prove sufficient for that particular job. The Breton _wanted_ the elves to be responsible, and while Sigrun disagreed with the stubborn way Delphine dismissed alternative theories, she understood. Enemies or not, the idea that a faction as powerful as the Thalmor were just as ignorant in this as the rest of the world meant something even more malicious was at play, and that was terrifying indeed.

  


Shouts rang through the compound, alerting Sigrun that she’d been discovered and the time for speculation was at an end. She still needed to find Elenwen’s quarters before she could make her retreat, and fighting her way through the embassy would take too long. She couldn’t risk that the ambassador would discover what she was after and hide or destroy any evidence before she got there.

  


Sigrun knelt down and began stripping the body of the mage, thankful that the robes she removed included a cowl. She had the height to pass for an Altmer - the face sculptor couldn’t change that - but even her new features marked her as a Nord.

  


Dressed in the dead man’s clothing, Sigrun dragged the body to a dark corner and ran up the stairs to the second floor, making her way out to the walled courtyard. As she reached the rampart, Sigrun pulled her cowl lower and slowed her steps to a brisk walk. There were patrols below, but no one paid any attention to her. From this distance, she looked like any other high-ranking Thalmor.

  


From the wall she could see another building behind the main structure, a lone mage posted outside its entrance. Those double doors, Sigrun noted uncomfortably, looked to be the only way in, and gods only knew what was waiting for her on the other side. With a resigned sigh, the Nord woman gripped the hilt of her sword and started down the rampart to the courtyard. The dragons needed to be stopped. If there was a chance the elves knew how to do that, even a slim one, she had to try.

  


“What are you doing away from your post?” the mage demanded as she approached. Sparks danced between his fingertips in warning as the Altmer readied a spell.

  


Sigrun never gave him the chance to complete that spell. She drew the sword from the folds of her robes and and plunged it into the mage’s chest. The man’s eyes widened in a mix of shock and pain as the glass blade entered his torso with little resistance. He grunted as she pulled the weapon free and slumped against the door, a thin ribbon of blood dribbling from one corner of his mouth.

  


“What is the meaning-” the mage broke off into a wet cough as his legs folded beneath him.

  


His breath came in shallow, bubbling gasps, his skin pale and ashen. Only the strongest healing magic could save him now, and even that might not be enough. Satisfied, Sigrun gave the man a nudge that sent him toppling over onto his side and pushed the doors open.

  


The Nord found herself entering a suite of rooms so lavish in furnishings and decor it had to belong to the ambassador. Easing the doors closed, she cast a long look about her surroundings, paying close attention to the areas the light of the hearth did not quite reach. This chamber was large and open. Much like the hall where Elenwen hosted her party, there were no real walls to divide the room. Instead, two lines of columns and arches partitioned the chamber into thirds. The larger, main area served as a sitting room, with a fine oak table centered before the fireplace, and two plush armchairs on either side. Directly behind them, a stairwell led to the second floor. To the left and right of that were smaller areas, furnished with elaborate couches for a more intimate setting.

  


When she was certain there was no one lying in wait for her, Sigrun crept toward the stairs. She paused, muscles tensed in alarm at the sound of voices. With a silent curse, the Nord slunk behind a pillar and waited, straining to make out what was said above the pounding of her own heart.

  


“You are most useful, Gissur, but do not presume. We have other informants who are far less…offensive.”

  


“But that money is mine! I earned it.”

  


There was no doubt the first voice belonged to one of the Thalmor. The words were clipped and concise, practically dripping with that unique blend of contempt and smug arrogance the elves had perfected. The second man was for more disturbing. His accent betrayed him as a Nord, and his words branded him a traitor.

  


Sick with anger, Sigrun waited for the argument to conclude. She knew the Dominion had agents among the Bosmer and Khajiit, but she had not thought they counted Nords among their allies. It was more than a little troubling to realize that the Thalmor might be able to sway her own people into turning on each other, but the truth of that was walking into the room, muttering to himself about who he might be able to turn in for his next payout.

  


Every instinct cried out for her to run the man through, but she tamped down the urge and waited for him to draw closer. When he was within an arm’s length of where she hid, Sigrun reached out and grabbed the man by a fistful of his ratty tunic and shoved him up against the column, bringing her sword up to rest the blade beneath his chin. Yelping in surprise, Gissur drew in a breath, perhaps to call for help, but Sigrun increased the blade’s pressure against his throat and shook her head.

  


“Not a word,” she whispered close to his ear. “You yell, you scream, you so much as _sneeze_ , and your head becomes a separate part of your body. Understand?”

  


Swallowing hard, the man gave a careful nod.

  


“Good,” Sigrun praised. “Then you just might walk out of here with everything intact. Now, since you like selling information so much, you’re going to answer a few questions for me. Tell me the truth, and I let you live. Lie to me, or try to get someone to help you, and you’ll be dead before you hit the floor. Simple, right?”

  


Gissur stared at her with eyes so wide the whites were visible all the way around. His body trembled as his mouth worked, but he produced nothing more than a low whine.

  


“None of that,” Sigrun chided. “Just nod if you understand our arrangement.” When he did so, she continued. “Who do you report to?”

  


“Rulindil m-mostly,” Gissur answered in a hoarse whisper. “Sometimes the ambassador, if the information is good enough.”

  


“Elenwen?”

  


“Yes.”

  


“These are her rooms, yes?”

  


“Yes.”

  


“Where do they take you to hear this information of yours?”

  


“Her office.”

  


“And you know where this office is?”

  


Gissur licked his lips and bobbed his head in another nod. “It’s right over there. Behind us.”

  


“And the one you were speaking with, Rulindil. Where did he go?”

  


“Probably back to the cellar.”

  


“What’s in the cellar?” she asked, though she had a suspicion she already knew the answer.

  


“It’s where they hold interrogations.”

  


“You mean torture,” Sigrun spat. Before he could reply, she continued, “How do I get there?”

  


Slowly, eyes never leaving the blade at his throat, he pointed toward the office.

  


“There’s a set of stairs that will take you right to it. It’s locked, though. You’ll never get in without a key.”

  


Sigrun darted a quick look in the direction he’d indicated and lowered her weapon. The relief in Gissur’s eyes was short lived as she adjusted her grip on the hilt and raised it once more.

  


“What are you doing? I _told_ you what you wanted,” Gissur pleaded. “You said you’d let me go!”

  


“I said I’d let you live,” Sigrun corrected, delivering a sharp blow with the pommel of her sword to the man’s temple. “That’s far more generous than you deserve.”

  


Gissur’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he let out a quiet sigh as he collapsed in a heap on the floor. Blood leaked from where she had struck him, but his chest continued to rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm. He’d wake with a headache that might make him wish he was dead, but he would live, just as she had promised.

 

******

 

_Intermediate Manual Uncoiling._

  


Sigrun read the line a second time, and then a third, before folding the sheets of parchment with numb fingers and tucking them beneath her robes. Simple words for such a horrific process; a mockery of the truth, but not without a fair degree of accuracy. Uncoiling was exactly what they did, picking and tugging at their victims until they were as shapeless and hollow as unraveled twine. It was an abuse she would not visit upon her worst enemy and yet the Thalmor took such pride in what they did, they _named_ it.

  


With considerable effort, Sigrun turned her attention to the other items she’d recovered from Elenwen’s desk. At first glance, the two journals didn’t seem like much. The leather covers were cracked and worn with age, the titles, written in a neat, flowing script, nearly faded beyond recognition. Only because of their location, hidden under the false bottom of one of the bureau’s drawers, had she bothered to give them a second look. They were dossiers, she realized, one for Delphine, and one for Ulfric Stormcloak.

  


The dossier on Delphine made sense. The woman had told her from the beginning that the Thalmor were after her, and based on this recent discovery, the Breton’s paranoia was well-founded. She resisted the urge to peek at the files’ contents with surprising ease. The dossier’s very existence was enough to confirm the older woman’s story. It still didn’t mean Delphine wasn’t using her for her own ends, but it proved she was an enemy of the Thalmor. She could trust in _that_ , if not the woman herself.

  


Ulfric’s was more troubling, the temptation to sate her curiosity almost overwhelming. Skyrim was divided at a time it most needed solidarity. The dossier could provide valuable insight to the man responsible for that rift, the man she had all but pledged herself to. Many Nords felt the Empire abandoned those who fought, bled, and died for it when the White Gold Concordant was signed, but what if that betrayal cut even deeper for Ulfric? Was he motivated by revenge and a lust for power, or did he truly have Skyrim’s best interests at heart?

  


Public opinion on the matter was as divided as the land. Pieces of the puzzle had literally fallen into her hands, and while they may not be enough to show the entire picture, she might catch a glimpse. If she were willing to look.

  


No, Sigrun decided. She would return both dossiers to their respective owners, unread, to do as they pleased. Somewhere out there might be a book very much like these with _her_ name on it. The thought of someone else reading it, discovering every little secret they had on her, left her feeling sick to her stomach. It couldn’t be compared to the way the Thalmor obtained their information, but it was still a violation of privacy.

  


A sudden bright light streaking across the periphery of her vision was the only warning she got before blinding pain raced up her arm and into her chest. With a strangled cry, Sigrun dropped behind the cover of the desk, the dossiers forgotten as she cradled her injured appendage. Her fingers twitched beyond her control, clenching and relaxing at random. She breathed deeply through her nose in an effort to ride out the spasms and gagged on air thick with the scents of ozone and scorched flesh.

  


“You might as well tell me what you’re doing in here,” a male voice remarked.

  


_Rulindil_.

  


When she said nothing, he heaved a dramatic sigh. “Keep your silence, if you wish. You’ll tell me eventually.”

  


Slow and deliberate footsteps reached her ears as he ascended the stairs. He was toying with her, she knew, perhaps hoping he could intimidate her into giving herself up. That, or he was stalling until others arrived. Sigrun wasn’t about to let that happen. She had what she needed. It was time to finish this and get out of there.

  


Peeking out into the main hall, she could see it was still empty. For now. The more time she spent dallying, the more likely that was to change. She no longer had the element of surprise, so a melee attack would be suicide. He’d finish her with spells before she ever got in range, and her own magic wasn’t strong enough to go toe-to-toe with a Thalmor mage. That left her Thu’um as her best defense, though she was loathe to use it. In addition to alerting every elf in the area, it carried the distinct disadvantage of revealing her true identity. Only a handful of people in all of Skyrim were capable of that particular talent, and the rest were all male.

  


“Surrender, and I may be persuaded into leniency,” he called from the top of the stairs.

  


In the end, Rulindil made her decision for her. They’d find out all they cared to know if she was captured. Walking out of here might mean going on the run again, but Delphine made it sound like she’d been evading the elves for years. It could be done.

  


The problem now was timing. She had to kill, or at least disable, the mage on the first try. If she could divert his attention elsewhere, she might be able to catch him off guard with her Voice. Sigrun looked around for something she could throw, her eyes settling on the desk’s matching chair. Holding her breath, she crawled behind it and gave it a hard kick.

  


The chair tumbled forward, clattering end over end before coming to a stop in the middle of the office. A heartbeat later, the air crackled as a bolt of lightning zipped past, so close she could feel strands of her hair escape her hood as they floated around her face. There was a loud crack as the chair was blasted back against the wall and reduced to a smoldering heap of wood.

  


Seizing her opportunity, the Nord popped up from behind the desk and let loose her Voice in a wave of glimmering force, sacrificing accuracy in favor of power. She had one chance to get this right, and the hesitation necessary to properly target the mage would allow him to ready another spell.

  


“FUS-RO!”

  


Taken by surprise, Rulindil’s arms flailed in wild circles as he was flung backwards from his perch at the top of the stairs. He crashed to the floor below with a long, low moan and lay still, an awkward tangle of sprawling limbs.

  


Sigrun scooped up the dossiers from where they had fallen, and after another quick check to ensure they were still alone, scurried down the stairs. Rulindil hadn’t so much as shifted from his position, and didn’t appear to be breathing.

  


Keeping a wary eye on the man, Sigrun bent down to search for his keys. She dreaded the idea of going through what amounted to a torture chamber, but there was no where else to go. It occurred to her that she might be cornering herself in the last place on Nirn she wanted to be, but she pushed her doubts aside. If the worst happened, if there was no way out beyond that door, Sovengarde waited. They would not take her alive.

  


Sigrun’s fingers had just closed around the iron ring of keys when the man’s golden eyes snapped open. Before she could react, one hand sprang forward, grabbing her roughly by the face. The Nord fell back but Rulindil moved with her until her back hit the floor and he was crouched over top of her.

  


The mage’s splayed fingers flared with an orange glow, and she could not stifle a scream as searing agony washed over her. Blisters erupted under Rulindil’s hand. In some small corner of her mind, separate from the pain, she could feel them break open and weep blood and other fluid in slow, sticky, trickles down her face. The stench of burning flesh assailed her nose, and she choked at the sudden rush of bile in her throat, her vision fading to a fuzzy gray.

  


_No! Stay awake!_

  


Sigrun grit her teeth against her torment, using it to ground herself, an anchor to hold her back from the yawning abyss. Her vision cleared, blurry images of the figure above her wavering in and out of focus. She could just make out the shape of a dagger or other small blade on his hip, ignored in favor of this more inventive method of dealing with his opponent. He might kill her yet, but she was going to drag that bastard to Oblivion right along with her.

  


It took more than one attempt to snatch the dagger from where it was sheathed, but when she did, she summoned every bit of her remaining strength and thrust it upward with both hands. A grunt and a respite from the flames licking along her skin told her she had hit her mark, but she didn’t stop, pulling the blade free and driving it forward again, and once more until Rulindil slumped over her.

  


For several moments, Sigrun could not move as she fought for breath, pinned beneath the mage’s body. With one last burst of will, she shoved the man aside and rolled to her knees, retching.

  


Somehow, she rose on trembling legs and raised a hand to the ruined half of her face, a low whimper escaping her at the touch. There was nothing but a mess of open and oozing tissue beneath her fingers. She bit her tongue until she tasted copper and set to healing what she could of the damage.

  


It was difficult to muster the concentration necessary for maintaining the spell, but she managed, aware that once more she had her lessons at the monastery to thank for it. Expending so much energy left her head reeling, but she pressed on, fumbling with the keys until she found one that opened the door to the interrogation chamber. Sigrun staggered, her body was wracked by violent tremors as she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  


A row of three barred cells ran along the back wall, each equipped with a set of rusted manacles. Two were empty, though the floors were still marked with dark stains that suggested their recent use. The third held a naked man, his extended arms bearing the brunt of his weight as he hung, knees not quite reaching the stone beneath.

  


It was a miserable position to be left in, every muscle and tendon straining beneath the body’s own weight as the shackles bit deeper and deeper. Any real damage was quickly healed, of course; corpses don’t talk. This was meant to break the spirit.

  


Sigrun’s breath came in panicked spurts, her heart racing so hard and fast her chest ached. She wanted to move, but her limbs refused to obey as terror swept through her. Rational thought was fading, swallowed by the dark shadows of her mind. Cold sweat collected on her brow and upper lip, forming tiny beads of moisture, but the room felt far too warm. From far away, she could hear a whining moan followed by whispered pleas.

  


Horrified, she recognized her own voice.

  


With a gasp, Sigrun shook her head and pressed her hand against the worst of her half-healed burns. It hurt, - oh, gods, did it hurt, - but the darkness receded and her mind cleared. Her hands still shook, her legs felt like jelly, but she was no longer paralyzed by fear.

  


She hurried to the occupied cell. It took a while to find the proper key, but within a minute or two, she had the door open and set to work on unlocking the manacles.

  


The man gave a shuddering sigh but refused to look up at her.

  


“I told you everything,” he half-sobbed. “I don’t know anything else, I swear! I don’t know…”

  


“I’m not one of them,” Sigrun tried to soothe, but the prisoner was not hearing her.

  


“I don’t know. I don’t _know_!”

  


As the first of the shackles clicked open, Sigrun had to catch the man as he fell forward. She supported his weight as much as she could and moved to the second.

  


“Can you stand?” she asked as the other shackle fell free. “We need to get out of here.”

  


There was no answer, so she gave him a rough shake.

  


“Look at me,” she snapped, yanking her cowl back from her face. “Ignore the clothes, and look at my face. Do I look like an elf?”

  


The man’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of her. In hindsight, she realized that in her current state, having him focus on her face was probably unwise, but she was running out of ideas. She had his attention at least, so she took that as a sign of progress.

  


“I need you to pull yourself together. Is there another way out of here?”

  


“There’s a trap door back in that corner,” he answered. “I saw them throw a body down there the other day.”

  


“That will have to do,” she responded with a grimace. “Come on.”

  


Hesitating, the man eyed her warily.

  


“Who sent you?”

  


“No one. Finding you here was luck, plain and simple. Now, if you want that luck to hold, you need to get your arse moving!”

  


Sigrun saw the exact moment he made up his mind, his face hardening into a grim mask. He followed her without further argument, darting anxious glances around the chamber as she began the slow process of sorting through her keys.

  


The trapdoor opened with a rush of fetid air. Sigrun made a face as she squinted into the darkness. She met the man’s dark eyes over the door and gestured into the dank blackness.

  


“Better get going.”

  


“Thank you,” he murmured as he moved to jump down. “I’ll find a way to repay you, I swear.”

  


“You can do that by making sure stopping for you wasn’t a waste of time. Now go!”

  


With a quick nod, the man jumped. Taking a deep breath, Sigrun cast one last look towards the room’s entrance and followed him into the murk below.

 

 


	7. Not a chapter - sorry!

Just a quick note to say that SV has *not* been abandoned. Finding time to write has been a challenge lately, but I'll eventually have the next chapter up. I have no intention of leaving this unfinished.


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